


Keep Your Love Alive

by dothraki_shieldmaiden, FriendofCarlotta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!women, Canon Compliant, Episode Fix-It: s15e20 Carry On, Everyone lives/Nobody dies, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Found Family, Hugs, Light Bondage, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon, Team Free Will Feels, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, so many hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28492482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: Dean gets to spend eternity sharing beers with Bobby on the Roadhouse porch and riding around in his Baby with Sam. He’s at peace… or he feels like he should be. But a few things nag at him: Where is Cas, and everybody else Dean had been hoping to see in Heaven? Why does he feel like he’s stuck in a loop, reliving the same memories over and over again? And who are the strangers wearing Sam’s and Bobby’s faces?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester
Comments: 443
Kudos: 788
Collections: Angel’s Supernatural favorites





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **FriendofCarlotta:** Before this fic, I had NEVER co-written anything with anyone, and I wasn’t sure I was capable of doing it. (I’m a control freak. Ssshh, don’t tell anyone.) But then, fueled by post-finale rage, dothraki_shieldmaiden and I got this idea for a fix-it, and we started to outline it. And then we kept outlining. And then we started writing, and kept writing, and we somehow ended up with a finished fic. This whole experience was so much fun, and I really hope it shows in the final product!
> 
> A big thank you to [duckyboos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos) for helping us make sure everything flowed well and made sense outside our weird twin brains. 
> 
> This fic is finished, so you can expect regular updates!
> 
>  **dothraki_shieldmaiden** I don't have much to add on this one. This is a runaway idea that spanned into a fic that spanned into a whole 'verse. Like FriendofCarlotta, I always assumed that I was too much of a control freak to properly co-write, but this has been a blast from beginning to end. I'm so excited to share this fic with you and see it come into the world. I hope you enjoy it as much as we enjoyed writing it. Much love.

Darkness.

All around, encroaching at the edges of Dean’s vision.

Clawing at him, claiming him.

He’s alone.

He’s afraid.

Until he’s not.

A flash of white, and he feels solid ground underneath his feet, dusty and sun-warm. He’s standing in a large clearing, surrounded by mountains on every side. There’s birdsong in the air, sounding from the tops of the evergreen trees, a boundless sea of them that clings to the steep terrain.

“Well,” he says softly, “at least I made it to Heaven.”

“Yep.”

Dean freezes, spins around. Where, just a second ago, Dean saw nothing but trees and open space, there’s Bobby — frayed ball cap, faded flannel and all. He’s leaning back in a creaky, rusted recliner that’s sitting on the porch of a squat wooden building.

Holy fuck, is the Roadhouse his Heaven?

No, that can’t be right. There were trees in back of the Roadhouse, sure, but the surrounding area was flat as a pancake for miles on either side. Something’s not right.

“What memory is this?” Dean asks.

“It ain’t, ya idjit,” Bobby answers, dry as a bone.

“Yeah it is, ‘cause the last I heard, you… _you_ were in Heaven’s lockup.” Dean strides onto the porch, taking it in. It definitely _looks_ like the Roadhouse porch. There’s even a loose board about halfway down. Dean remembers it being just a little closer to the front door, but he’s probably got that wrong. 

“Was. Now I’m not.” Bobby looks out at the seemingly limitless expanse of woodland spread out in front of them. “That kid of yours, before he went... wherever, made some changes here. Busted _my_ ass out. And then he… well, he set some things right.”

Dean sinks into the recliner next to Bobby. It’s a lot, being here, and it feels good to get off his feet.

“Tore down all the walls,” Bobby says, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Heaven ain’t just reliving your golden oldies anymore. It’s what it always should have been. Everyone happy. Everyone together.” He points at one of the mountain ranges, more or less straight ahead. “Rufus lives about five miles that way, with Aretha. Thought _she’d_ have better taste. And your mom and dad, they got a place over yonder.” Bobby points off to the left, and Dean’s eyes follow the motion, but all he sees is just more trees. His eyes slide back to Bobby, to find him already watching. “It ain’t just Heaven, Dean,” Bobby says. “It’s the Heaven _you_ deserve. And we’ve been waiting for you.”

For the first time, Dean notices a cooler between their two chairs. Bobby pops it open and produces a bottle of El Sol. Behind the cooler, there’s a carved wooden monkey, grinning obscenely and wearing a red bowtie and yellow suit jacket. It’s cradling a cup in both paws, offering up the bottle opener inside. Something snags at Dean’s memory. That monkey used to be part of the Roadhouse alright, but it wasn’t out here. It sat on the bar.

He shakes his head, dismissing the thought and grabbing the beer Bobby’s holding out to him.

“So Jack did all that?” Dean asks.

“Well… Cas helped.”

 _Cas._ Something expands in Dean’s chest, a lightness he hasn’t really felt since he got to this place.

Cas is _here_.

Something of his relief and wonder must show on his face, because Bobby shoots him a knowing smirk, one eyebrow raised as he uncaps his own beer. On any other day, Dean would care what Bobby thinks of his reaction, but they’re dead, for God’s sake. It’s a little late to be worried about old hang-ups.

“It’s a big, new world out there. You’ll see,” Bobby says, and they each take a sip of their drink.

“Oh, wow.” Dean runs a thumb down the label of his bottle. It’s cool to the touch as it should be, and condensation-wet. “This tastes like the first drink I ever shared with my dad.”

“Quality stuff?”

“No, it’s crap,” Dean says. Bobby chuckles, and Dean’s lips curl up as he remembers that night, sitting on the Impala’s hood with his father while Sam slept in the back seat. One of the few truly good memories the two of them made together. “But it was fantastic.”

“Just like this,” Bobby says, voice warm and pleased.

Dean wants to agree, but then he thinks of himself, up here in Heaven with everyone he loves, and of Sam, left to burn Dean’s body and then return alone to the huge, echoing vaults of the bunker. “It’s _almost_ perfect,” he says.

“He’ll be along,” Bobby says, his face the picture of understanding and compassion. “Time up here, it’s… it’s different. You got everything you could ever want, or need or… dream. So I guess the question is, what are you gonna do now, Dean?”

 _Find Cas_ , Dean thinks. _I need a way to find Cas_. _Wish I could just get in Baby and drive till I find him._

As if summoned by the thought, Baby appears in front of the Roadhouse, parked in the clearing no more than a few paces away. It’s like the first sight of an old friend after a long time away, and Dean’s heart skips a beat. He spares half a second to wonder why it's still beating at all if he's dead, but that's a worry for another time. He's got places to be.

“I think I’ll go for a drive,” he says.

“Have fun,” Bobby replies, toasting Dean as he walks away.

When he reaches Baby’s side, he gives her a friendly pat on the roof, the shape comforting and familiar under his fingers. He slides into the driver’s seat, runs both hands down the steering wheel. For the first time since he got to Heaven, it feels like home.

“Hey, Baby,” he says, smiling down at the dash.

When he turns the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles just like it should, and the opening chords of “Carry On Wayward Son” sound from the speakers.

“Love this song,” Dean says, grinning, and he hoots at the top of his lungs as he pushes the gas pedal all the way down, just because he can. In the rearview mirror, the Roadhouse fades into a cloud of dust.

Miles and miles of road stretch in front of him, flanked by sun-dappled forest on either side. Any other time, Dean would be worried about what the bumps and dips’ll do to his Baby’s suspension, but he has a feeling he won’t need to worry about car maintenance in Jack’s Heaven. He can’t decide if he’s glad for that or not. 

Like the road, time stretches, endless and unfathomable. Dean drives and drives, but the sun doesn’t go down. A dead man needs no sleep, so maybe there’s no night here. There’s something disconcerting about that, but Dean pushes it down.

He’s behind the wheel of his Baby, he’s in Heaven, and he’s going to find Cas. He’ll tell him all the things he never got to say down on Earth, before the Empty’s tendrils reached out and wrapped around Cas in an obscene embrace; their corrupted, oozing touch claiming the angel Dean had loved quietly, secretly, for well over a decade.

If only he’d known how Cas felt.

_The one thing I want is something I know I can’t have._

There’s no two ways about it: it’s his own damn fault Cas didn’t know. He was unkind to Cas so many times over the years, pushed him away more often than not. Sometimes, he had good reason, because Cas made more than his fair share of mistakes. But other times, it simply got to be too much, being around Cas while this hollow, hopeless love clawed at Dean’s chest. It hurt, to know that he’d found the love of his life, but could never be with him, because angels just weren’t built to love that way.

Or so Dean had thought, until it was too late.

But no, Dean reminds himself, it’s not too late. Cas is here, which means there _has_ to be a way to find him. Dean hasn’t seen any turnoffs from the main road yet, but Bobby said everyone could be together up here, so there’s got to be a way to get off the road. Dean just hasn’t found it yet.

Maybe this’ll work just like Baby. Maybe all he has to do is think hard enough about the thing he wants.

 _Cas_ , he thinks, closing his eyes. _I want Cas._

When he opens his eyes again, he’s coming up on a bridge. Its concrete pillars span a decent-sized riverbed, maybe fifty feet wide. Dean stops the car, gets out. Cas will come and find him here; he’s sure of it. 

Dean leans onto the railing as he waits, one foot propped on the bottom rung of metal. He looks out at the view, and it’s breathtaking, the shallow water of the river bubbling over rocks, the sun painting the trees above in shades of gold.

There’s a prickling at the back of Dean’s neck, and he knows he’s not alone anymore. Someone’s stepped onto the bridge behind him.

But it’s not Cas. No, Dean would know that Sasquatch stomp anywhere. 

“Hey, Sammy,” he says, and turns.

Sam is there, smiling a little bashfully and looking just like Dean remembers him. “Dean.”

Something lifts in Dean at the sight of his brother, and yet. There’s a sense that this isn’t exactly what he wanted, not how he imagined their reunion would go. They’re just standing here, on a bridge in Heaven, looking at each other, a vague air of awkwardness between them that Dean can’t explain.

_Maybe it’s because I wish Cas was here, too._

Dean regrets the thought as soon as it’s taken shape and pulls Sam into a hug, burying his face in his little brother’s shoulder. They’re back together, and they’ll be up here for all of eternity. This is a moment of joy.

When they pull apart, Dean wraps his arm around his brother’s neck and leads him back to the railing. They take in the view, Sam’s warmth a steadying presence by Dean’s side.

“We’re in Heaven,” Sam says, sounding awestruck.

“Yeah, man,” Dean agrees. “I haven’t even been here that long, but I met Bobby a little while back. At the Roadhouse, can you imagine?” He hitches on a grin, hoping it’ll dispel the lingering feeling of _wrong_ in his gut. “The _Roadhouse_ is up here.”

“Awesome,” Sam says. “Let’s go. I wanna see.”

Dean’s a little tired of driving by now, but he doesn’t say that. Sam wants to see the Roadhouse, see Bobby, and Dean’s never been able to refuse his little brother anything. So he gets back in the driver’s seat, and “Carry On Wayward Son” comes on the radio. Dean moves to turn it off, but Sam arrests his motion, fingers curling around Dean’s wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, teeth showing in a big grin. “I love this song.”

Reluctantly, Dean nods, and he starts to drive. This time, it takes them mere moments to make it back to the clearing where the Roadhouse sits. Dean could swear it took longer than this to get to the bridge, but it’s hard to tell. And, like Bobby said, time up here is different.

Speaking of Bobby, he’s gone from his chair on the porch.

“Huh,” Dean says as he slides out of his seat, pushing Baby’s door closed. The hinges don’t creak. Maybe that’s another thing Jack fixed for him. “Bobby was here earlier. Guess he went inside. Let’s go see.”

He starts walking, and then Sam is there, hand clamped on Dean’s shoulder. Dean could swear he was several paces behind just a second ago.

“No need, man,” Sam says, his smile bigger than ever. “Let’s just sit on the porch, have a beer. Then we can drive some more.”

Dean fights the urge to shake off his brother’s hand. That sense of _wrong_ is creeping up on him again. “No, that’s alright. I just wanna go inside. See who’s there, you know? Haven’t really had a chance to say hi to anyone except you and Bobby.”

_Maybe Cas is waiting there for me._

Dean keeps walking, Sam’s hand sliding off him. The Roadhouse seems further away than it did a moment ago, but it’s probably Dean’s mind playing tricks, or another bit of weirdness about Heaven. If time is different, space might be too, right?

He steps onto the porch, loose board creaking under his feet.

Wasn’t that board somewhere different before?

Dean shakes his head to clear it, and closes the last of the distance to the door. His fingers curl around the handle, and he pushes.

A flash of white.

***

A flash of white, and he feels solid ground under his feet, dusty and sun-warm. Birdsong reaches him from among an endless sea of evergreens that stretches far in front of him, all the way to the horizon.

“Well,” he says softly, “at least I made it to Heaven.”

“Yep.”

It’s Bobby, frayed ball cap, faded flannel and all, and he tells Dean all about how Heaven’s different now, the walls torn down and everyone together, as they should be.

“So Jack did all that?” Dean asks.

“Well… Cas helped.”

 _Cas._ There’s an itch under Dean’s skin, crawling and worrying at him. Like there’s something he should know, or realize, but it’s just out of reach.

 _Cas_.

“Hey, Bobby?”

Bobby smiles at him over the neck of his beer bottle, big and serene. “Hmm?”

“Where’s Cas?”

When Dean was a kid, he spent a lot of time hovering next to crappy motel TVs, pulling at the rabbit ears, trying to get a clear image. He’d usually manage it eventually, but every once in a while, a single line of black and white would travel down the screen, top to bottom, distorting faces and objects in bizarre, unsettling ways.

That’s what’s happening now.

Bobby’s face flickers, his smile frozen, and a shiver of _something_ passes down the edges of the Roadhouse, softening and distorting them.

The whole thing takes no longer than the blink of an eye, and Dean’s sure he imagined it as soon as Bobby says, smile widening, “He’ll be along.”

Jerking his chin at the clearing out front of the Roadhouse, Bobby says, “You wanna go for a drive?”

And there’s Dean’s Baby, looking good as new, like an old friend come to greet him. Dean’s unease recedes to a dull buzz in the background, because Baby is here, and it feels _right_ and _good_.

Dean gets behind the wheel, “Carry On Wayward Son” plays on the radio, and he drives. Time stretches, interminable and unknowable, and Dean thinks he might really like to see Cas. Or his mom. Or anyone, really.

He wishes for that, as hard as he can, but it makes no difference. The road stretches on still, until he reaches a bridge that spans a riverbed.

Then Sam is there, and it’s good to see him, but there’s an awkwardness Dean can’t explain. All the time, just below the surface of his consciousness, something scratches at him.

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

They drive to the Roadhouse, and Dean _really_ wants inside, wants to see who’s in there. He knows, somehow, that Sam’s going to reach out to stop him, so he walks faster, and then he’s at the door, pushing it open.

A flash of white.

***

“Hey, Sam?”

Sam hums to show he’s listening. He’s leaning against the bridge’s railing, eyes fixed on the dazzling view of the distant trees, painted golden by the sunlight.

“Did you have a good life?”

Sam turns to him, smiling big and happy. “I did.”

“Good. That’s good.” Dean nods, studying his brother’s face. Sam looks just like Dean remembers him, and yet. There’s something that isn’t right. If Dean could just put his finger on what it is, he’d feel so much better.

Maybe it would help to know more about Sam’s life; get to know this version of him, who’s probably lived several decades that Dean never got to see.

“Tell me about it, man. D’you ever marry Eileen? Have kids?”

“I had a wife and a son, yeah,” Sam says, eyes fixed on the view again.

Dean frowns, off-balance. “A wife? Not Eileen?”

“I had a wife,” Sam says again. “C’mon. Let’s go for a drive.”

By the time Dean looks up, Sam’s already sliding into the passenger seat. Swallowing hard, Dean trails after him. When he turns the key in the ignition, “Carry On Wayward Son” comes on the radio. Dean goes to turn it off, but Sam stops him, fingers curling around Dean’s wrist.

“Don’t,” Sam says, and his grin sits strangely on his face. “I love that song.”

Something cold, black and gaping opens in Dean’s chest.

 _Wrong. Wrong. Wrong_.

There’s a flash of something across Dean’s mind. A memory — of static, disruption, edges fuzzing and faces distorting.

“Hey, Sam?” he croaks.

Sam is still smiling, unblinking and serene. “Hmm?”

“Where’s Cas?”

Baby’s engine stalls, and the song cuts out. A horizontal line, midnight-black and jagged, travels across Sam’s face, from his hairline to his chin and down his chest. The darkness at its center is painful to look at, like a crack in the fabric of the universe.

And then it’s gone. Baby’s engine purrs, and the twang of guitars sounds from her speakers.

Dean pushes down the gas pedal, fear slithering under his skin.

Something just isn’t _right_ about this place, and he needs to figure out what it is. If he can just make it through the door of the Roadhouse, he’ll get to where he’s supposed to be. He’ll get all the answers.

As soon as the Roadhouse comes into view, Dean bolts out of the car, engine still running. He ignores Sam’s voice behind him and runs full-tilt for the door. He reaches out, he pushes, he can almost feel it give under his hand—

A flash of white.

***

The road disappears under Baby’s tires, trees blurring into a single long smear as Dean presses harder on the gas pedal. Normally, he would be a little hesitant about pushing his girl this hard, on a road that curves this sharply, but he figures, what the hell. It’s Heaven. He’s probably allowed to bend some rules of the road. Besides, it’s not like he’s seen another car since he got here. 

The thought catches at the back of his mind, like an annoying little burr, or like the earworm of the Kansas song, and once it’s there, he can’t get it out. _Where is everyone else?_

It’s not like Dean wanted his Heaven looking like a summer’s day at Disneyland, but he would have expected to see at least _some_ other signs of life by now. 

Dean glances over at Sam. Normally, if he was taking the curves this fast, Sam would have some prissy little comment, some _Why don’t you slow down a little bit there, Fast and Furious?_ But there’s nothing. Either Sam’s finally, after a whole lifetime on Earth, managed to pull the enormous stick out of his ass (unlikely), or… 

A tiny sliver of cold slithers down Dean’s spine. 

_Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ a small voice in the back of his head chants. 

“So, I was thinking maybe we could go drive to see the folks,” Dean says. He ignores the ramrod straight posture of Sam’s spine and the unnerving rictus of his half-smile. “You know, Bobby said that they lived somewhere around—” 

“I think I’d like to go to the Roadhouse,” Sam interrupts. His voice sounds a little wooden, almost like he’s reading from a script, but surely Dean’s imagining things. Guy just found himself in Heaven after all. It takes a little getting used to. 

“Yeah, alright. Roadhouse it is.” Dean focuses his intent on the highway in front of him and thinks, _Roadhouse,_ and then, like magic, there it is in front of him, just like before, surrounded by a thick copse of trees. 

“This is great,” Sam says as he unfolds himself from the car. “Just like I remember.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, ignoring the uneasy curl in his chest and the persistent whisper of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ beating at his skull like a drummer’s kit. He looks around at the trees, and hears the distinct sound of a babbling brook in the background, and the _wrong, wrong, wrong_ becomes an itch underneath his skin that he can’t shake off, no matter how hard he tries. 

He squints at the porch of the Roadhouse. “Where is everybody?” he mutters, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he blinks. Bobby is exactly where he left him, sipping his beer in a rocking chair on the porch. It doesn’t look like the volume has decreased on his beer. 

“Shit,” Dean mutters, rubbing at his temples and pinching at the bridge of his nose. He starts towards the Roadhouse, but Sam’s beaten him there. 

Some part of Dean that was slightly out of alignment snaps back into place when he watches Sam take the steps to the Roadhouse two at a time to wrap his arms around Bobby. Bobby returns the hug, almost as fiercely, his fingers grabbing Sam’s jacket as he embraces him tightly. Dean smiles, emotion rising high in his throat. 

It’s his family, reunited. It’s what he’s wanted for years: to gather all the people he loves close to him and keep them safe. 

There's just one very important person missing. 

Sam’s eyes are misty when Dean stands next to him, and even Bobby’s eyes are a little glassy. Dean _wants_ to feel the same way, but there’s still something not quite right. 

“It’s so good to see you, Bobby,” Sam gushes. “Do you have another one of those beers?” Seemingly out of nowhere, Bobby pulls out a beer and hands it to Sam, who then settles into a chair on the porch, like he has no other care in the world. 

“You take care of yourself?” Bobby asks. 

“Yeah,” Sam answers, killing the neck of his bottle in a single swallow. “Had a pretty decent life, all things considered.” 

“That’s good,” Bobby says, nodding once to close the topic. 

Sam takes another drink from his bottle. Bobby sighs happily, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. Dean, standing, shifts uncomfortably. A loose board creaks underneath his feet, sounding ominous in the otherwise silent air. He strains his ears for sounds coming from inside the Roadhouse, but picks up nothing. It’s not unusual, he tells himself. The Roadhouse was always dead until around five in the afternoon. It means nothing. 

Mom. Dad. Charlie. Kevin. Jack. 

_Cas._

Dean’s heart beats a symphony of names. “So, I figured after we finished saying hi to Ellen, Jo and Ash, we could go see the folks. Hey, Bobby, you know where Cas is hanging out these days?” 

The air freezes around him. Sam and Bobby’s faces distort oddly, going wavy and fuzzy at the edges. Dean shifts in alarm, but the board no longer creaks underneath his feet. Dean’s heart thumps in his chest, once, twice, and then Sam is turning to him, a vapid smile on his face. 

“Hey,” he says, nothing behind his eyes but an empty wall, “do you want to go for a drive? There’s a hell of a lot of territory that we haven’t explored yet.” 

“Bobby,” Dean says, shifting his eyes away from Sam, to look at Bobby’s face. “Where’s everyone? Where’s Cas?” 

The air catches again and a low whining noise grabs at Dean’s attention. It’s barely a second, almost short enough for Dean to dismiss it, if the same thing hadn’t happened only seconds earlier. Bobby inclines his head, a serene expression on his rugged face. “They’ll be along soon,” he answers, tranquil as a saint. 

“Yeah,” Dean answers. Certainty settles into his bones, the sense of _wrong, wrong, wrong_ stronger than ever. Sam and Bobby look at him, politely curious, as if they’ve been introduced to a small child whose motivations and actions are still a mystery. “I ain’t waiting.” 

He walks towards the Roadhouse door, hand outstretched. He hears Bobby’s warning, _Dean, don’t,_ but then his fingers are wrapping around the metal handle of the door, oddly cool despite the sun and warmth of the day, and then—

A flash of white. 

***

Bobby passes Dean a bottle of El Sol. Somewhere in the distance, a lone bird chirps a short song. 

“It’s a big, new world out there. You’ll see,” Bobby says.

The drink is chillingly cold against Dean’s palm. His nerveless fingers grip the bottle. His brain trips, skips, and jumps as he tries to come to terms with his surroundings. 

Sam was just here. He _knows_ that, just as he knows that he’s still waiting for Sam to arrive, that Sam is still alive on Earth. His mind feels like a VHS tape that’s been recorded over one too many times, tracks laid upon tracks until everything blends together and nothing makes sense. 

Bobby takes another drink, but something about his movements is off. The lift of his arm is almost mechanical, like an animatronic at the mall performing a series of pre-recorded motions. 

The bird chirps again, and this time, Dean makes an effort to listen. Is that the same song as before? 

“He’ll be along,” Bobby says, apropos of nothing. He stares out at the empty expanse of dirt in front of the Roadhouse, and the trees in the distance. 

“Who’ll be along?” Dean asks. He takes a sip of the beer. It’s shitty, it’s been shitty ever since the first time he had a drink with Dad, but it does chase away some of the dryness in his mouth. 

He’s lived this before. He doesn’t know how or when or where, but he knows, somehow, that he’s been here before. 

“Time up here, it’s… it’s different. You got everything you could ever want, or need or… dream. So I guess the question is, what are you gonna do now, Dean?”

“Bobby.” Dean licks his lips. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_ taps against his skull until that’s all he can see or hear. Bobby turns towards him. A chill, unrelated to the humid warmth in the air, races across Dean’s skin. The motions are all correct, but there’s no meaning behind them. It’s all… empty. 

_Cas._

“Bobby, where’s Cas?” 

Bobby smiles, but the smile crackles and flickers around the edges. “They’ll be along soon.” 

Dean sets down his beer. No condensation remains on his hand, even though drops of water were just trickling down the neck of the bottle. “I’m going to go see everyone,” he says, walking towards the door of the Roadhouse. 

“Don’t touch that,” Bobby says, just as Dean starts to push on the door—

A flash of white.

***

Dean is driving.

He’s been driving so long that time has lost all meaning, the hours stretching and contorting themselves in ways that make his skin crawl.

There’s nothing but the road, the merciless sun beating down, unceasing, and the silent trees standing watch all around him.

He can’t stand the fucking trees anymore. He just needs to _stop_ driving, he needs to—

He’s so caught in his own head that he almost misses it: a turnoff, the first one he’s seen since he got here.

He pumps the brakes, and Baby comes to a juddering, jolting halt.

It’s no more than a narrow footpath, but it’s definitely there — a break in the endless wall of trees, snaking off into the green distance.

Dean gets out of the car, leaving the door open behind him just in case. He looks down at the path, trying to find the trap. It could be that it’s exactly what it looks like: a way to get off the road, maybe find somebody else. Or it could be just another endless, hopeless way to get nowhere at all.

Then again, what other choice does he have?

On a deep breath in, Dean braces himself, and he steps forward.

He’s not sure what he expected to happen, but either way, nothing does. The birds keep up their endless, monotonous song, the trees loom up around him. Dean takes another step, then another, until he falls into a rhythm, the steady beat of his boots on the dirt marking his progress along the path’s meandering course through the forest. Soon, he’s lost all sense of time and distance; for all he knows, he could be minutes away from the road, or hours.

After he’s been walking forever, or no time at all, there’s a sharp bend in the road. Dean speeds up as he gets closer, curiosity spurring him on.

He rounds the corner. Not fifty yards away, the path dead-ends at the Roadhouse.

Dean wants to scream, wants to tear the damn thing down one wooden board at a time. But then he stops, and looks. Really looks.

On the surface, it’s just the same as the Roadhouse where he met Bobby. But then again… it isn’t. There’s an energy about this particular building that the other one doesn’t have. It feels out of place with its surroundings, like someone tossed a neon-red Lego brick into a bin of plain wooden blocks.

Intrigued, Dean takes a step closer.

Maybe following this path was a way out after all. Maybe someone new is waiting for him here. Maybe, if he just gives voice to his hope, he’ll make it come true.

“Cas?”

There’s a flicker on the porch, there and gone again, but Dean could _swear_ he saw a familiar flash of tan.

“Cas?” Dean tries again. “Are you there, man?”

Another flicker, and Cas appears next to the front door, legs planted in a defensive stance, blade poised in his right hand and forehead pinched in an expression of confusion. His eyes land on where Dean is standing, and they widen. “Dean.”

“Cas?”

There’s no more than thirty yards separating them, and Dean starts to run, heart in his throat, wanting more than anything to get there, to see Cas, to _touch_ him—

Cas flickers and disappears.

“No,” Dean says, stepping onto the porch and spinning around, frantic, searching. “ _No no no_.”

He’s alone.

“Fuck.” Dean takes a deep breath, and another, trying to tamp down on the surge of adrenaline that’s making his hands shake and his heart race. He needs to get it together.

When he’s restored some semblance of control over himself, he looks around. Right next to him is the Roadhouse door, beckoning him inside. It’s that, or going back to the road. He can’t go back to the road. 

Dean pushes against the aged wood of the door with his palm, and it gives. It swings open, revealing a familiar interior.

The place is just as dark and gritty as it was before it burned down, with mismatched stools, scuffed pool tables, stains on the floor and a grinning monkey sitting at the far end of the three-sided bar. “Paint It Black” is playing on the jukebox in the corner.

Someone is standing behind the bar, and in the low light from the dusty windows, Dean almost thinks it might be Jo, or Ellen.

But then he steps closer, and he realizes that it’s not either of them.

“Ruby?”

She’s perched on the counter by the big wall mirror, legs crossed, an insolent smirk on her face.

“Finally made it, huh? Took you long enough.” She looks him up and down, unimpressed. “A guy your age, guess I’ve gotta be grateful you managed to get to the end of the path at all.”

Dean stays by the door, subtly widening his stance and tensing his muscles, prepared for an attack. 

“What the hell’re _you_ doing here?” he growls.

Ruby’s smirk widens. “I’m here to help your ass break out, actually.”

Dean stares her down, not moving from his place just inside the door. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Ruby hops off the counter and makes her way to the bar, jerking her chin at Dean to come closer. “You should probably sit down for this.”

Never taking his eyes off Ruby, Dean approaches the bar slowly. He pulls out a stool that keeps at least three arms’ lengths between them. “Well?” he says, none too politely, as he sits.

“Might wanna show a little more respect to your savior. There’s no getting out of here without me.”

Dean’s hands clench into fists, every fiber of his being itching to punch the sneer off Ruby’s face. He resists the impulse, but barely. “Answers. Now,” he grits out.

“Say please,” Ruby says, all false, sickly sweetness.

“Answers, or I start walking.” Dean makes to rise off his stool. It’s a shot in the dark, but it finds its mark: a split-second flash of fear ripples across Ruby’s face before she restores her devil-may-care facade.

“Fine,” she says. “You’re in the Empty.”

Something clicks into place in Dean’s head: that creeping unease, that sense of _wrong, wrong, wrong_. He was kind of starting to think this place couldn’t be Heaven, because it just wasn’t _right_ , but—

“How?” He shakes his head, trying to find even a sliver of reason in the madness. “I… I remember being on a vamp hunt with Sam. I got impaled on a piece of fucking rebar, and I could tell I wasn’t gonna make it, and then… I must’ve died.” He frowns. “But why the hell did I go to the Empty?”

Ruby shrugs. “Don’t know. But some of what you think happened — it probably didn’t. The Shadow likes to mess around with your memories till you forget what’s real and what’s not.” She looks right at Dean, and there’s something dark and haunted sitting at the back of her eyes. “It loves illusions, especially the kind that make you miserable. That’s what this whole place is — a dream world especially designed to break Dean Winchester’s spirit.” For a moment, she looks almost sorry for him. “Lucky you.”

Dean thinks of Bobby, and the way his smile, his mannerisms didn’t seem quite right. He thinks of a meeting with an empty, grinning version of Sam that hasn’t happened yet, but he somehow remembers it. He thinks of the endless road that led him nowhere. It all adds up to his own personal brand of hell.

Still, every fiber of his being rebels against taking Ruby at her word. After all, this is what she’s best at: twisting lies until they sound like truth.

“Why should I believe a single thing that comes out of your mouth?” Dean snaps. “Not like you exactly got a history of being trustworthy.”

Ruby hums, amused. “You got any other options?”

On the jukebox, “Paint It Black” transitions into “Black Dog.” Dean swallows, hard, and his eyes land on the rows of dusty bottles at Ruby’s back. “I could use a drink,” he croaks.

Ruby’s lips curl up. “Sorry, pretty boy. I need you sharp, and I don’t know how much longer I can hang out in here. ‘Cause this bar right here, and the path out front? That’s me projecting myself into your illusion so I could talk to you. Eventually, the Shadow’ll get wise to what I’m doing and shore up the walls to keep me out. I’m already pushing it, so let’s make this snappy.” She leans onto the bar top, fixing him with glittering, narrowed eyes. “Listen up. There’s a portal that leads out of this place. Not out of the Empty, but at least out of your own personal hell, which is a start. It probably looks like a door. D’you remember anything like that?”

Something flashes across the back of Dean’s mind — another memory that hasn’t happened yet. He tried to open the door to the other Roadhouse, but as soon as he touched it, there was a flash of white, and then… what? “There’s another Roadhouse here,” he says, slowly. “I think I tried to get out that way before. But every time I try—”

“Every time you try, the illusion resets, and you’re back where you started. That’s how mine worked too, except my door was…” She clenches her jaw, bites down on her bottom lip. “You know what? That’s private. Let’s just say, the Shadow treated me to an infinite loop of my biggest regrets.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean’s hands are clenched, knuckles white, fingernails digging into his palm. “Sam figure in there at all?”

Ruby’s expression tightens. “As a matter of fact, he did. You might not wanna believe it, but I _liked_ your brother.”

Dean scoffs. “Funny way of showing it.” He glowers at her, and she gives back as good as she gets. But eventually, Dean’s curiosity wins out over his resentment. “So if the door ain’t the way, how do I get out? How did _you_ get out?”

Ruby’s laugh is completely devoid of amusement. “I didn’t. I got woken up, when Castiel paid me a visit to get intel about the occultum. I managed to run after that; kept one step ahead of the Shadow at all times, so it couldn’t put me to sleep again.” She shakes her head, as though to dislodge a troubling memory. “Anyway, not the point. What I’m trying to say is, before I got woken up, I was starting to figure out how to beat the illusion.”

Hope flares, wild and hot, in Dean’s chest. “How?”

“Long story short, I’m pretty sure the door _is_ the way, but only if you can figure out how to weaken the Empty’s control over your illusion first.” Ruby shoots him a speculative glance. “Have you noticed any… glitches?”

Dean rubs at his temples, closing his eyes and willing himself to remember. More impossible memories start playing in his head, scratched and faded like an old bit of celluloid, but undeniably _there_ : Baby’s engine stalling. Bobby’s expression, fizzing with static. A black, gaping line sliding down Sam’s face. 

“Yeah. Something like… bad reception on a TV. Edges getting fuzzy, music cutting out.” Dean shivers. “Something long and black, like a… a rip or a tear.”

Ruby nods, something eager sparking in her expression. “That’s it. Those glitches? That’s the Empty starting to lose control because _something’s_ knocking it off balance. Something it doesn’t like, ‘cause it’s too much, too loud, too… something. Figure out what it is, and keep doing it. Once you can sense the illusion start to fall apart, get to the portal and walk through. That’s your ticket out of here.”

Dean nods, thoughts racing. “Okay. Fuck. Okay.”

If he can do this, actually get out of this nightmare loop, maybe he can travel around the Empty, like Ruby’s done. He could try to find Cas, get him out too.

Dean taps the bartop with his fingertips, hesitating. He hates to hand Ruby weapons to use against him, but he _has_ to know.

“Hey, have you seen—” He swallows, willing his voice to come out steady, his expression to give nothing away. “Cas is here too, right?”

The song on the jukebox stalls, and there’s a fizz of static, Ruby’s outline blurring at the edges. “Carry On Wayward Son” starts playing.

Ruby looks over her shoulder, and when she turns back to him, panic is plain on her face. “Shit. I’ve gotta get out of here.” She starts to flicker. “You _need_ to figure this out. Kinda counting on you here.”

In a blink, she’s gone, and Dean is standing by the side of the road, next to his Baby’s open driver’s side door. 

*** 

Baby has always been Dean’s peaceful place: the spot where he retreated when he needed to figure things out.

Now, stuck in his own personal nightmare, even driving has become a thing he dreads. But there’s still something reassuring about just sitting in his seat, listening to the Impala’s throaty purr, feeling the curve of her steering wheel under his fingers.

Dean turns the key in the ignition. “Carry On Wayward Son” starts playing on the radio, but Dean shuts it off. He lets the vibrations of the engine calm him, closes his eyes as he tries to grasp at the hopeless tangle of contradictory memories crowding his brain.

He can remember now that he’s met Bobby a few times, and Sam too, but it’s hard to put his finger on specific things they said or did.

Okay, baby steps.

Maybe he should start by finding a memory of a time when there was a glitch.

He’s pretty sure one happened when he was sitting on the Roadhouse porch with Bobby, however many resets ago.

They were talking. Bobby was telling him about all the improvements Jack made to Heaven, and about how Cas helped, and that’s when it happened.

No, that’s not right.

Dean asked about Cas. _That’s_ when it happened.

Okay, that’s good. That’s something he can work with.

When did he notice another glitch?

This one comes to him much more quickly. He was in the car, with Sam, and he was thrown off by how _wrong_ Sam seemed; how he didn’t even seem to remember Eileen’s name.

And then Dean asked about Cas.

Fuck, what if Cas showing up on the Roadhouse porch was a glitch too?

Heart beating a little faster, Dean casts his mind back to what happened in the forest. He was walking along the path, noticing how different this version of the Roadhouse seemed, how maybe if he could just get to it, he’d finally find—

That’s right. He thought Cas might be there.

He called Cas’ _name_.

Damn. That’s it. Every time he says Cas’ name, the illusion glitches.

Dean smiles, relieved, and leans back against the upholstery. There’s only one thing he can think to do next.

Dean braces himself and yells, loud as he can, “Cas!”

The Impala’s engine stalls and the forest disappears, replaced by walls of impenetrable darkness in every direction.

The forest blinks back into existence, and Cas is in the front seat next to him, eyes wide, lips parted.

“Dean?”

All the fear, all the anger and unease Dean’s built up since he got here, drain from him, and he feels a smile split his face. “Cas.”

Cas smiles back at him, looking overwhelmed with relief. “Dean. I’ve been trying to—”

With a flicker of static, Cas is gone, and Sam smiles at Dean from the passenger seat.

“Let’s go for a drive, Dean,” he says, his voice strange and hollow.

“Fuck.” Dean jolts back, his head bumping hard against the driver’s side window in his urge to get away. “No. No, fuck. Cas!” he hollers, at the top of his lungs, looking around the car’s interior.

Impossibly, Sam’s smile widens. “Castiel won’t be coming back,” he says, his voice a sneer now, nasal and too high-pitched. “You’re mine. All mine.”

Dean’s heart is racing, cold sweat pearling at the back of his neck, as he pushes the door open and stumbles outside.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, just lets his feet carry him as far away as they can from that thing, that shadow, wearing his brother’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic is a lyric from "Running on Empty" by Jackson Browne - you know, that song the 15x19 montage was set to and that made us all (okay, some of us) believe we were about to witness a dramatic Empty rescue in 15x20? Or literally anything other than a vampire mime case fic?
> 
> Anyway. Is Dean really in the Empty? Where is Cas? What are Sam, Eileen and Jack up to? Answers to all this and more coming in Chapter 2!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **FriendofCarlotta:** Welcome back! We were absolutely floored and overwhelmed by the wonderful, supportive comments we got on the first chapter. Thank you all so much, and we hope you enjoy the turn this story is about to take!

A fist strikes at the door, again and again. Every hit causes the door to shiver in its frame. The warding sparks and fizzles with each impact, but that’s a minor concern. 

Right now, Castiel has another mission.

“You are the most caring man on earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.” Castiel steps closer, eyes locked on Dean’s stricken expression. “You know, ever since we met and ever since I pulled you out of hell, knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, _I_ cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack. I cared about the whole world, because of _you_. You changed me, Dean.”

Castiel’s voice breaks, and his heart beats frantically in his chest. He cherishes each of those beats, knowing that their time is numbered. Each one is precious, another half-second he gets to spend on this earth. 

There’s regret, for all the time he could have spent, and sorrow for the moments he’ll never get to have. A bright sliver of fear sits in the midst of his love; whatever happens next, he’s been promised eternal suffering, and he doesn’t doubt that the Shadow will uphold its end of the bargain on that account. 

But more than anything else, there is _happiness._ He never truly understood the meaning of the word, not until this moment. He thought happiness was synonymous with a pleasant afternoon, with settling down to a movie with Dean, Sam, and Jack. He thought it happened after a successful hunt, or in rare moments when Dean would sling his arm around his shoulders and draw him close for a swift embrace. 

But those were all pale imitations. _This_ is happiness. The knowledge that he can save Dean Winchester one last time, the idea of laying his soul bare, of looking into the eyes of the man he loves and telling him the truth. 

His eyes are burning. Tears. What an odd response to this feeling that starts in his chest and courses through the rest of his body. How illogical. 

How human. 

“Why does this sound like a goodbye?” 

Dean. It seems impossible that one human’s frame could contain this much emotion, but there it is. Castiel looks at Dean’s soul for the last time — still bright, still glorious, even now, amidst so much death and destruction. He shouldn’t be surprised. It had still shone, even in the darkest depths of hell, even after every attempt to tarnish its golden brightness. 

If this is going to be the last thing he sees in the world, then it’s a good one. 

“Because it is.”

Dean’s face doesn’t crack, not quite, but it wobbles around the edges. His eyes are glassy, disbelief and denial just starting to spread across his features. He doesn’t understand, not yet, but he will, one day. Castiel has to believe that. One day, Dean will be able to let the sun shine upon his face, embrace the world, and live his life to the fullest. 

Happiness. 

It’s worth dying for. 

“I love you.” 

It’s incandescent, the warmth that blazes through Castiel’s chest as he gives the last piece of himself to Dean. _When you finally allow yourself to be happy…_

He can already feel it, the mechanisms of the universe turning. Cosmic. Castiel looks at Dean, drinking in the sight of him like a drowning man. 

Not long now. 

“Don’t do this, Cas.” 

Dean’s mouth opens, perhaps catching on another fruitless plea (it’s too late, but it was always too late, it was too late for Castiel ever since the moment he first wrapped Dean in his grace and pulled him from Hell), but he’s stopped by a hissing, gurgling, bubbling sound. It’s the sound of nothingness, where there should be something. It’s the sound of a hole opening in the universe. 

The door bursts open. Billie strides into the dungeon, implacable and deadly. Her eyes are focused on Dean. She barely spares a look for the greater danger gathering at the other end of the room. 

The Empty reaches out and takes her, easily as a child snatching up a piece of candy. 

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. Joy clouds the edge of his vision, turning Dean’s beloved face hazy. 

This, he can do. One last time, he can save Dean Winchester. 

The Empty roils and gathers itself. Castiel reaches out to place his hand on Dean’s shoulder, where he gripped him for the first time, all those years ago. 

“Goodbye Dean,” Castiel says, and then—

The Empty shoots past him, a viper striking swift and sure. It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment Dean is in front of him, warm and beautiful and _alive_ , and the next moment, Dean is gone, snatched away from him. Castiel’s hand closes on nothing. 

Time slows down into separate seconds, unconnected to each other. Each exists in its separate bubble of agony and realization. Dean is gone. Dean was _there,_ and now he is _gone,_ and the entity responsible—

Castiel turns to face the wall, horror swelling in his chest. “No,” he breathes, then shouts, _“No!_ It was _me,_ it was supposed to be _me_! _I’m_ the one you want, take me, _take me, please!”_

“All this racket,” a sultry voice drawls. “You’d think you’d learn.” 

The Shadow, wearing Meg’s visage, grins at him. Her mouth splits too wide, the corners of her lips almost reaching up to touch her ears. There are too many teeth, all of them sharp and gleaming. “I mean, that’s what got you in trouble in the first place.” 

“Give him back,” Castiel says, each word a contained threat. His blade, useless, falls into his hand. “It’s me you want. Not him. He’s… nothing to you.” 

_He is everything to me._

“Oh, Castiel. I _said_ I wanted you to suffer. _This_ is suffering.” 

“We had a deal. You take _me._ Dean _lives.”_

The Shadow leers at him. It still wears Meg's face, but when she opens her mouth, someone else’s voice emerges. “To save Dean Winchester,” Metatron says, an exact echo of his horrific words all those years ago. “I mean, you drape yourself in the flag of Heaven, but ultimately, it was all to save one human, right? Well, guess what? He’s dead too.” 

“No,” Castiel breathes, even as Meg’s smile splits and her face curls backward on itself. “No, no, _no,_ take me, take me, it was supposed to be _me!”_ He lunges forward, fingers scrabbling at the brick wall as the Shadow folds into itself and disappears. _“NO!”_

He scratches his fingertips bloody, pounding his fist into the brick until he leaves smears of crimson behind. Frantic fury takes him over. Dean can’t be gone, that’s not how it was supposed to go, it was supposed to be _him,_ Dean was supposed to _live,_ that was the _deal,_ Dean Winchester was supposed to be _saved,_ that was Castiel’s _purpose—_

Castiel drops to his knees, his bloodied fingers curling into fists on the floor. A visceral scream rips through his throat, his real voice tearing through the sound of his human one. The wrath and grief of Heaven shake the walls of the bunker, but it doesn’t bring the Empty back, it doesn’t bring _Dean_ back. 

Castiel screams until he tastes blood in the back of his throat, and all he can think is, _Your fault, your fault, your fault._

***

Sam is slumped in the passenger seat of a stolen car, Jack behind the wheel. It seems like he should be providing words of comfort to Jack, be there for him, but all he can bring himself to do is stare hopelessly at the empty landscape that flashes past outside the window. All those times they saved the world… only to fail at the finish line. 

_Maybe Dean and Cas can still pull out the win. Maybe they can kill Billie and bring everybody back._

Exhaustion and grief pull at him in equal measure, urging him to rest, to close his eyes for just a minute. But he can’t sleep now. He needs to plan, consider next steps... 

He’s at a restaurant, Eileen looking at him from across the table. Her dark hair curls down over her shoulders, eyes sparkling in the glow of the overhead lights. She looks radiant in a simple, strapless black dress.

“She’s called Mrs. Butters? You’re _kidding_.” Eileen grins, leaning forward, and Sam fights down the urge to move in for a kiss. They’ve just started talking again. It’s too soon.

“I swear, it’s true,” he says instead, returning her grin with interest. “Apparently, the Men of Letters kept her around to take care of them, but she went dormant along with the bunker, and now she’s just… back.”

Eileen shakes her head fondly. “Man, I missed this. You guys lead the weirdest lives.”

“Yeah.” Sam takes a sip of his wine, swallowing down the words he really wants to say. _I missed you too. So much._

It’s their first real date since Eileen left the bunker, after they discovered Chuck had been manipulating her. The restaurant where they decided to meet up is a two-hour drive from the bunker, but every minute was worth it to be here, talking to Eileen again, laughing with her.

Sam would never tell Dean about this, because he’d be teased mercilessly, but he spent ages researching the perfect place to meet with Eileen: somewhere nice, with great food and a romantic atmosphere, but with the lights bright enough for Eileen to be able to read his lips. He’s been studying up on his ASL since they started talking again, but he’s still far from fluent.

“Hey.” Eileen’s smile fades a little, and she reaches for Sam’s hand where it’s resting between them on the white tablecloth. “I’m sorry I left. It was all just… too much. I needed to…” She screws up her face, looking for the right word. “Process, I guess.”

Sam nods. “I get that. I really do.” He looks down at their joined hands and runs his thumb across Eileen’s callused knuckles. She has good hands, made strong and sure by decades of hunting, just like his.

He looks up. “Hey, when this Chuck thing is all over, maybe we could—”

In a blink of his eye, Eileen is gone, vanished into thin air like so much vapor. The seat opposite him is empty, his palm cold.

“Eileen? Eileen!”

Someone grabs him by the shoulder, shakes him. “Sam!”

Sam startles awake.

Jack is next to him in the driver’s seat, looking worried. “I’m sorry, Sam, I wasn’t going to wake you, but it looked like you were having a nightmare. You were calling for—” He breaks off, eyes wide with pity. “I’m very sorry.”

Sam blinks, trying to jolt himself back into the present moment. The dream seemed so vivid, so real, every detail exactly as he remembers it from that night. Even after everything that had happened between them, it felt good and easy, spending time with Eileen. After their meal, they traded a soft kiss goodbye outside the restaurant, and a promise to keep in touch and build on what they’d had before.

Now, they’ll never get the chance.

Something twists inside Sam at the thought, but he pushes it down and forces his breathing to steady. “It’s okay, Jack.” He tries to hitch on a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t seem to be working. Maybe later.

He looks around and finds that they’ve pulled over by the side of a rural highway. “Where are we?”

“Still in Minnesota,” Jack says, looking sheepish. “I’ve just been driving around, looking for signs of life.”

“Anything?” Sam asks, already knowing the answer.

Jack shakes his head. “Maybe we should try calling Dean again. Or Cas.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Sam straightens in his seat and pulls out his phone. He’ll be alright. He can do this. He just needs to focus on the next step, and the next one after that, and not let his thoughts stray.

He definitely can’t let himself fall asleep again.

Squaring his shoulders, Sam keys in Cas’ number and puts the phone to his ear.

***

There is a sound. A buzzing.

Somewhere, buried deep in the haze of his grief, Castiel recognizes it as the vibration of his phone in the pocket of his coat.

He ignores it.

Hours beyond measure have passed since he came into being, but none have felt as long as this one: the hour Castiel has spent on the floor of the bunker’s dungeon, leaning against the cold, solid concrete of the wall and shaking with sobs that he seems powerless to stop.

He didn’t use to notice cold, or the discomfort of sitting on a hard surface. He didn’t use to cry. But his grace is fading steadily, and Castiel knows the day is not far off when it will be gone altogether.

Another sob wracks him, and more tears run down his face, no matter how hard he squeezes his eyes shut to prevent them. He had let himself hope that, this time, when he became fully human, he would be allowed to stay by Dean’s side. Not in the way he truly wished to be, of course, but perhaps as a friend.

What a foolish hope.

Dean is gone, and Castiel’s happiness, Castiel’s love for him, is the cause.

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” he tells the empty room, his voice a broken rasp. “It was my curse. My burden. I never meant for this to happen.”

He should have seen it coming, of course. The first time he went to the Empty, the Shadow had ample time to peruse his mind; to study all his weaknesses and devise the best way to use them against him. 

_I have tiptoed through all your tulips. I know whom you love… what you fear._

The buzzing sounds again. With effort, Castiel remembers that there is still a world beyond the walls of this room, where Sam and Jack are fighting to protect others and might need his help.

Before Castiel was anything else, he was a soldier. Soldiers are trained to fight on, even when they know the battle is lost. He digs deep, to the very bottom of his being, and finds just enough fighting spirit left to pull his phone out of his pocket. The word “Sam” flashes on the screen, and Castiel slides his thumb across to answer it.

“Cas?” Sam’s voice sounds breathless, frantic.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel croaks.

“Thank God I caught you.” Sam sounds almost weak with relief. “I’ve been trying to call Dean, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. Everyone’s gone, Cas. All the people—” A deep exhale. “Fuck. Fuck, I don’t know what to do. Please tell me you guys are close to getting to Billie.”

Fear pushes past the numbness in Castiel’s chest, gripping him tight. “Wait… you say everyone is gone? What about—”

_Not Jack. Please, not Jack._

Apparently sensing Castiel’s unspoken plea, Sam says, “Jack is fine, but everyone else in the silo, all the other people around town, they just… disappeared into thin air.” A beat, and then, “Are… you guys okay? You still going after Billie?”

_We went in search of her, and we found her. It was a terrible, stupid mistake, and now your brother is dead because of me._

Castiel finds that he can’t say it, not yet, and not over the phone. “We should meet up,” he says instead. “Halfway between here and Hastings. Des Moines should do. Call me when you get there.”

He ends the call, ignoring Sam’s frantic, “Cas? Cas, wait, what the hell—”

Castiel picks himself up off the floor, then retrieves his angel blade from where it fell after the Shadow left him behind. He averts his eyes from the spot where, little more than an hour ago, the man he loved was pulled into the darkness.

The bunker’s corridors are silent, but the inside of Castiel’s head is a cacophony of memories. It feels like mountains have risen, oceans been formed, in the time since he last passed this way, carrying Dean’s weight on his shoulders, murmuring soft reassurances.

_It’s alright. I’ve got you._

Baby is still parked in front of the bunker’s entrance, where Dean left her, key in the ignition. Castiel should go back inside, to the garage, and choose a different car. It seems almost a betrayal to drive her when Dean is not here to give his permission. But Castiel knows the last confrontation with Chuck is coming, and he is unlikely to survive it. If this is to be his final journey, he wants some part of Dean by his side — some reminder that Dean existed in this world and made it brighter.

So Castiel slides into the driver’s seat and turns the engine on. A vaguely familiar rock song starts up, but Castiel turns it off. Fingers clenched around the steering wheel, he drives down the access road and turns onto the main highway that leads to Lebanon.

He finds no fewer than four empty cars, just sitting on the highway, before he even reaches the town. There are quite a few more in the ditches on either side of the road.

Once he arrives in Lebanon proper, the streets are utterly devoid of people, the only signs of life a few bits of paper blowing down the street. The doors of some of the shops hang open, and there are more cars. Several of them have crashed into trash cans, fire hydrants and other obstacles on the sidewalk.

As Castiel passes the sign that reads “Now Leaving Lebanon — Have a Nice Day!” he notices a playground, a set of swings swaying softly in the wind. An empty stroller sits by one of the benches. He pushes the gas pedal all the way down, and Baby’s engine roars as she picks up speed under him.

Castiel closes his eyes for just a moment and allows himself to imagine that Dean is sitting in the passenger seat, smiling at him.

***

It takes much longer to get to Des Moines than it should. Castiel makes his way onto the interstate, but the lanes are blocked at distressingly frequent intervals by twisted heaps of metal — cars and trucks that spun out of control when their drivers were taken.

Eventually, Castiel decides to try his luck on the smaller highways, which see less traffic and should therefore be easier to navigate. This proves accurate, but it still takes him until nightfall to reach Des Moines. It has been twenty-four hours since they discovered that Eileen was gone. Twelve hours since…

Castiel’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, feeling where the touch of Dean’s fingers has worn away at its grooves.

Sam has texted him the address of an intersection in one of the outlying neighborhoods, the press of cars apparently too dense to make it further into the city. Castiel supposes it doesn’t matter where they go, because the end of their story will find them anywhere.

When Castiel pulls up at the meeting place, Sam and Jack are already there, their silhouettes outlined by the yellowish glow of streetlights. They both look up at the rumble of Baby’s engine and immediately start walking. Castiel wishes he could pray for the strength to face them.

He pushes the car door shut behind him, and Sam and Jack glance at the passenger side, obviously expecting Dean to emerge from it and explain why he allowed Castiel behind the steering wheel.

“Cas?” Jack asks, a small quaver in his voice. “Where’s Dean?”

“He—” The words are stuck in Castiel’s throat; a biological impossibility, and yet, a fact. With a supreme effort, he forces them out. “He’s gone.”

Sam staggers back a step, shaking his head. “No, no, he… he can’t be—”

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel says quietly.

Jack’s face is twisted with a kind of hurt confusion, and Castiel’s heart aches to see it. He would take on Jack’s pain, too, if he could. It would hardly matter now.

“But… I don’t understand,” Jack says, voice pleading. “Why would Billie take Dean, but not you or me or Sam? We’ve _all_ died before.”

Looking at Sam is more than Castiel can bear, so he holds Jack’s eyes as he says, “It wasn’t Billie. Dean—” He pauses, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. With a dull, distant ache, he thinks of the days when emotion was nothing but an abstract concept to him. He doesn’t regret all the ways he has changed since then, but he is so very tired, and he yearns for a reprieve.

Castiel takes another moment to steady himself before he speaks again. “Dean and I found Billie in Death’s library. She said she wasn’t behind the disappearances. It’s Chuck.”

The mere mention of his Father’s name causes a shudder of revulsion to run through him. To think that he once worshipped and exalted without question the name of this small, petty being, who has been the agent of destroying every bit of peace and contentment Castiel ever attempted to keep for himself.

Sam’s hand lands on Castiel’s arm. “Cas, that… that doesn’t make any sense. Why would Chuck kill… why would he want Dean gone?” Sam asks, eyes wild and pleading. “That was always his _thing_ — just the two of us, you know, and no one else? Why would he—”

“No, that’s not…” Castiel falters. How can a tragedy as monumental as Dean’s death be explained in mere human language? It should be told in a wordless lament, in a scream of pain and devastation. But Sam deserves an explanation, as does Jack, so Castiel goes on. “Billie followed us out of the library and back to the bunker. She was going to kill Dean. I summoned the Empty to destroy Billie and save Dean, but it… it took him instead of me.”

There’s an audible intake of breath, and Jack looks to Castiel with a question in his eyes. In answer, Castiel simply nods.

“Cas made a deal,” Jack says, turning to Sam. “To save me from the Shadow when it came to find me in Heaven. The Shadow said,” Jack frowns with the effort to remember, “that when he finally allowed himself to be happy, it would come for him.”

Sam’s eyes dart back and forth between them, still looking for the joke, the way out. “But… I don’t get it. What does that — why would it take _Dean_?”

Jack looks unsure now, his eyes darting to Castiel. With a start, Castiel realizes that Jack _knew_. Somehow, he guessed the nature of the happiness Castiel wished for, but could never have. Strengthened by that realization, Castiel speaks his truth out loud, for the second time today.

“I loved him.” No, he thinks, that’s not quite right. “I _love_ him. The Empty took him because it thought his death would cause me greater suffering than my own.” His voice trembles when he adds, “It was right.”

Jack steps forward and hugs Castiel, and then Sam joins them, long, strong arms wrapping around their shoulders. The three of them hold each other — a broken, diminished family standing under an uncaring sky, shaking with grief and regret.

Minutes pass before they pull apart.

“What now?” Jack asks, dully.

Sam wipes at his eyes and swallows hard. “Now,” he says, “we surrender to Chuck.”

***

It’s dark, and the silence of the neighborhood is eerie. There should be the light of TV screens flickering through windows, the sound of cars moving through the streets, dogs barking in the night. Instead, there’s _nothing._ Not even the hum of insects splits the night. 

Castiel, Sam and Jack are waiting, periods of stillness and despair alternating with manic energy and frantic pacing. When Castiel leans back against the Impala, its hood is cool to the touch, the heat from the engine having long since subsided.

“Come here, you half-rate hack!” Sam had screamed, several hours ago, to no avail. 

All of them have tried praying to Chuck since then; all without success. Castiel has no doubt that Chuck can already sense their surrender, but he also has no doubt that Chuck wants them to beg for it. God will take just as much pleasure from prolonging the inevitable as he can. This is the last act in his play, so it has to hit all the right notes. Castiel understands, even as loathing creeps through every molecule of his body. 

The silence surrounding them has become an almost tangible force. It presses down on Castiel’s shoulders, hunching him over. 

“Do you think he’ll show?” Sam’s voice is hoarse from disuse. 

Castiel doesn’t even have to think before answering. “He’ll show.” He knows his Father, finally, here at the end of all things. He knows that Chuck would never give up an opportunity to gloat. 

“Hey, guys. Enjoying a little… _alone_ time?” 

Castiel’s hackles rise as he hears Chuck’s voice. Chuck sounds gleeful. He sounds _pleased._

The angel blade rests in Castiel’s sleeve. It’s a struggle for him not to draw it, but he didn’t come here to fight. He came here to lose. 

Sam lifts his chin. “You win,” he says, and somehow manages to make that sentence sound like a rebellion instead of a surrender. 

Chuck’s grin crawls across his face, smarmy and unsettling. “Of course I do. That’s just how these things happen.” His eyes rest on the three of them in turn. “Is that all you wanted, or…?” 

“We’ll give you what you want,” Castiel says. The words taste of bile and ash. 

Chuck sneers as he looks at him, and Castiel wonders how he could ever have thought his Father benevolent. “And that is?”

“I die,” Sam Winchester says, and Castiel’s heart breaks just a little more. “Cas kills me, I kill myself, whatever. It’s what you always wanted.” 

“And Cas and I will serve you." Jack’s voice wobbles as he speaks. “Or you can take away our powers and kill us too. But you have to bring them back. All the people. Bobby, Donna, Charlie, the animals… You have to bring them back.” 

Castiel interrupts. “And Dean. You bring him back.” 

Chuck thinks for a moment, theatrically tapping his chin with his index finger before he comes out with, “Yeah… No.” He chuckles. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the white flag is always fun, and begging is a good look for you. But I go where the story takes me, and I’m really enjoying where this one is taking me right now.” 

“You can’t,” Castiel says through gritted teeth, as he sees his last hope for rescuing Dean slip away from him. 

“Oh, no, see, I really can. I’m the Almighty, and I can do what I want. And right now, the thought of you three, wandering through this lonely, empty world forever, knowing that you doomed yourselves to this because you wouldn’t just take a knee? I’m really liking that idea. It’s eternal. It’s miserable.” 

Chuck steps to within an arm’s reach of Castiel. “And Dean, trapped forever in the Empty? I can’t imagine what sorts of tortures he’s going through right now. You know, after this, I might go pay him a visit." Chuck's eyes sparkle with glee. "Your choices, Castiel. _Your_ choices made all this possible. How’s that free will working out for you?” 

Castiel’s mind races as Chuck steps back. It can’t end here. Not like this. He refuses to believe that after everything, this is the end of Sam, and Jack, and Dean, but he can’t see another solution. Chuck is the only one with the power to fix this, but Chuck won’t listen. There’s no one and nothing else. 

Except—

“Amara,” he says, in the second before Chuck disappears. His pulse races when Chuck’s motions stutter. “Amara, I know you can hear me.” 

Chuck turns around to face him. A smirk crosses his face, but a twitch of his facial muscles changes the expression to a grimace. “Amara is _gone,”_ he says, spitting out each word. “She’s with me—” 

“Amara, I know you’re listening, and I’m sorry. I know you were lied to. I know you were betrayed, and I know that you did what you thought you had to do, but please, listen.” 

There’s no way to tell if his gamble is working. No way, other than the peculiar stiffness of Chuck’s shoulders. 

“I know you care for Dean.” Castiel waits for a beat and amends his previous statement, pushing aside a sudden flash of irrational jealousy. “I know you _love_ Dean. Amara, Dean is trapped in the Empty right now and undergoing the worst imaginable torture. The Empty is… It’s cold, and fathomless. It’s the worst isolation imaginable. It’s nothingness beyond what the human mind can comprehend, and right now, Dean is stuck in the middle of it. He is drowning amidst a cosmic entity so vast and terrifying that your brother never attempted to understand it.”

“Boo frickin’ hoo,” Chuck snarls, though his form is starting to waver at the edges, almost like he’s underwater. “After this stunt, _Castiel,_ you’ll need to stop worrying about Dean and start worrying about yourself.” 

Castiel ignores him. “Amara, think about Dean. Think about his brightness, his kindness. He doesn’t deserve to be trapped there. He deserves to be free, in a world that’s open and inviting towards him. He deserves to feel the sun on his face, to be able to live and laugh and love, to enjoy his life. You know that’s true. Please. Please help me save him.” 

A strangled laugh erupts from Chuck’s throat. “Is this your last move, Castiel? You’re going to appeal to the power of _love?”_

Chuck’s laugh is like blood in the water. Sensing victory, Castiel continues speaking, his voice gaining strength and purpose with every word. “Amara, you didn’t want this world to be destroyed. You came to care for this world, almost as much as you cared for Dean. You have the power to save them both.” 

The muscles of Chuck’s throat stand out taut in his neck. Castiel can see a vein throbbing. His heart is racing inside his chest, so rapidly that if he were human, he would fear for his blood pressure. But he can also taste the promise of change in the air. 

“Please, Amara. Please. Help me save the world. Help me save Dean.” 

Chuck’s body goes rigid, his spine snapping to ramrod straightness. Dark smoke curls at the end of his fingers, warring with the harsh, blue-white light Castiel recognizes from his own grace. Chuck shudders. A harsh, rasping cough tears through his throat and more smoke wisps out of his mouth. 

“You complete, fucking—” he says, but he never has a chance to complete the insult. 

Darkness spreads across his chest, obscuring his blazer and shirt. Chuck’s body twists and folds, splitting apart even as it collapses in on itself. Castiel feels his own awareness stutter, unable to comprehend what he’s seeing. He can only imagine what it must be like for Jack and Sam as they witness the impossible. 

The universe holds its breath. Time catches for a moment. When it starts again, Amara stands in front of them, an enigmatic smile on her face. 

“Castiel,” she says, her low voice thrilling through his grace to touch at his innermost core. She glides forward to stand in front of him and reaches out. Castiel represses his flinch as her hand cups his cheek. He’s overwhelmed, standing so close to an entity that eclipses and surpasses him so completely. His grace is nothing more than a pinprick in the face of her enormity. “I understand. You love him too.” 

She steps away, and Castiel breathes a silent sigh of relief. While she doesn’t seem antagonistic, it’s uncomfortable being in her presence. He finally becomes aware of Sam and Jack next to him, as Sam takes a half-step forward. 

“And Chuck?” he asks, his voice breaking halfway through his question. “Where… Where is he?” 

Amara tilts her head. “He’s… with me now,” she says, almost as if she’s realizing it herself in that moment. She tugs aside the collar of her pantsuit jacket to reveal her shoulder. There, next to the red Mark of Cain, is a new mark against her skin, this one gleaming bluish white. It’s twisted into a shape resembling an infinity symbol, but with additional loops and whorls that fold and twist among themselves. She touches the symbol once, almost fondly, before she readjusts her clothing. “I have a lot of experience with cages. He is contained.” 

Next to Castiel, Sam sags with relief. Jack is more cautious, his posture still rigid, though hope is starting to gleam in his eyes. “And the world?” he asks. “What about that?” 

Amara looks up at the sky. She draws in a deep breath before raising her right hand. 

The snap of her finger is understated, not dripping in theatricality as Chuck’s would be. Castiel almost misses the sound of her knuckles shifting together. He listens harder, but he can’t hear the echoes of her snap. Instead, he hears the sounds of traffic, of human voices, of life. 

Castiel’s heart pounds in his chest. His knees go weak with the joy coursing through his veins. He can feel the difference in the air, and when he stretches out his grace, it almost immediately encounters one soul, and then another, and another, until he’s overwhelmed by them. Humanity, the world…. It’s saved. 

“You’re welcome,” Amara says, and snaps her fingers again.

***

Sam staggers as his feet hit the ground. His head swims with the rush of being transported, and there’s a terrifying moment when he’s sure he’s going to vomit. Thankfully, the urge passes, and his vision finally clears enough for him to recognize where he is. 

The Impala is parked neatly in her customary spot. Cas and Jack are on either side of the car, looking distinctly less disturbed than he feels. Sam puts a hand on the Impala’s frame to steady his weak knees. When the palm of his hand rests against the cool metal, the thought hits him like a sledgehammer. 

“Dean,” he gasps, looking wildly at Cas and Jack. Jack’s forehead furrows, but Castiel catches his train of thought. 

“If Amara brought back the rest of the world,” Sam begins, but Cas interrupts him. 

“Then she might have brought back Dean.” 

Sam forgets, sometimes, that Cas isn’t human. His otherworldly edges have been softened by time and exposure, and for the most part, Cas is just their friend with helpful powers who hangs out in the bunker and occasionally kills monsters. But sometimes, Sam is forcibly reminded. Like now, when Cas moves faster than any human could hope to. One second he’s standing beside the Impala, and the next second, the snap of his coattails is all Sam sees as Cas rushes out of the garage. Another second passes, and then Sam pushes aside his lingering dizziness and nausea to follow. 

The sound of their footsteps and harsh breaths echoes through the narrow hallways as they burst into the war room. “Dean!” Cas shouts. Something desperate is trapped at the edge of his voice as he calls out again. “Dean?”

Sam pushes past Cas and makes his way to the kitchen. If Dean is anywhere, he’ll be there, right at the heart of the bunker, where they’ve shared so many meals and memories. Dean has to be there, because if Dean _isn’t_ there, then Sam has to face the prospect of a world that continues turning, but without his brother in it. 

He’s not ready for that. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready for that. 

Sam stumbles down the steps into the kitchen, with Dean’s name already on his lips. Hope swells in his chest, almost to the point of bursting. His ribs can’t contain this much emotion, the world and Dean returned to him, and maybe every so often this shitty world does owe them _something_ … 

The kitchen is empty. There’s a few dishes still left in the sink, some with remnants of past meals caked onto them. A chair sits slightly askew, like someone left in a hurry and didn’t push it back underneath the table all the way. Tiny signs of life litter the kitchen, but not his brother. Not Dean. 

From far away, he can hear Jack and Cas calling out for Dean, but Sam already knows the truth: they’ll come up with nothing. Dean isn’t here. 

His legs finally give out underneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. The impact jolts up his spine, and he knows that it should hurt, but he can’t feel it. To have gained the world, and yet lost Dean… Sam knows they won, but he can’t help feeling like he lost everything that was important. 

Dean is in the Empty. Cas has been close-lipped about his time there, but Sam knows enough to fear it. He remembers what Billie said the first time he saw her, when she threatened to toss both him and Dean into the Empty. 

_Nothing comes back from that._

Dean is gone.

A dry sob bursts from Sam’s throat, and once he starts crying, he can’t stop. He brings his knees close to his chest and rests his forehead on them, mingling dirt from his forehead and his jeans. His chest shakes with the force of his hacking sobs, as he curls his fingers in the rough fabric of his jeans. He feels like a child again, lost and alone in a world that’s much too big for him to fathom. He wants someone to wrap their arms around him and tell him that it’s going to be alright. He wants someone to kick his ass and tell him to get the fuck up off the ground. 

He wants _Dean,_ and his heart breaks all over again when he realizes he’s never going to get the chance to share the rest of his life with his brother. 

Slow footsteps eventually come to the kitchen. Sam raises his eyes, unashamed of the tears falling openly down his face. Cas stands in the doorway. His face is a map of devastation, and Sam wonders how Cas can still _feel_ so much, after all these billions of years. 

“Dean’s not… He’s not in the bunker,” Cas says. He collapses into a chair as though he has no more energy left in his body. Sam understands how he feels. “I thought,” Cas begins, speaking directly to the table, “I thought that he would be here. I thought I’d managed to get through to Amara. I thought…” 

His voice trails off for a few seconds. The next sentence comes out rough and almost inaudible. “It was supposed to be me. I never would have… Everything I’ve done has been to protect him. And then, when it mattered most, I couldn’t…” Cas bangs his fist on the table, once, very softly. He swallows, and when he turns to look at Sam, his eyes are dry. 

“We’ll find something else,” he says. “Sam? We’ll find something else.” His voice is full of the old angelic grit and determination that makes Sam believe, somehow, in spite of everything, they might just yank out a win. 

“You should get some rest,” Cas says, but Sam’s attention is stolen by the feeling of his phone vibrating in his pocket. 

Honestly, it’s surprising he hasn’t had more calls. He expects that Charlie, Donna and Bobby all have a number of questions, having been snapped away and returned, only to find him gone. He shifts to dig his phone out of his pocket, using the time it takes to gather up the strength to deal with their questions. The thought of explaining the events of the past twenty-four hours makes him want to curl up into a tiny ball and never emerge, but he owes them more than a voicemail. 

He glances at the screen before he answers. The name flashing across it makes him almost drop the phone. 

He fumbles, barely managing to snatch the phone back before it hits the ground. He’s shaking, huge, full-bodied shivers tearing through him as he tries to control his fingers enough to swipe for the video chat. His heart has taken up permanent residence in his throat, to the point where all he can manage is a sad croak of “Eileen?” 

Eileen’s face flashes into view. She looks equal parts scared, annoyed and confused, but she’s alive, she’s _alive._

Sam sobs, this time in sheer joy and relief. Cas’ head lifts, but Sam doesn’t care that he’s eavesdropping onto his conversation. 

“Sam? What the hell is going on?” Eileen asks.

Sam stares at her face, drinking in the sight of her, from the twist of her mouth to the lift of her eyebrow. Her expression gets more impatient with every second he doesn’t answer. 

“It’s really good to see you,” Sam finally says.

The words soften Eileen’s expression from anger to confusion. “Seriously, what’s going on? I get a text from you telling me to head to the bunker, and I remember grabbing my bag. And then, the next thing I know, I’m standing in the middle of the sidewalk, but when I look at my computer, it shows that a whole day has passed, so what the _hell_ happened?” 

“It’s a really long story,” Sam says. His voice is rough, but his phone is angled so that Eileen can clearly see his lips moving. “A lot of stuff happened, um…” He closes his eyes and tries to gather his scattered thoughts. “Chuck and Billie, they were, he disappeared everyone, but then Amara brought them back, but Dean is…” 

“Sam!” The sharp bark of his name snaps Sam’s attention back to Eileen. “Sam, I’m heading to the bunker now, alright? I’ll be there in a few hours, and you can tell me then.” 

Sam nods. His eyes burn with unshed emotion, and he wipes his mouth with his hand several times. There’s so much he wants to say, but he can’t, not when the loss of Dean has carved a hole in his chest. “Thanks,” he finally whispers, and then remembers to take his hand away from his mouth so Eileen can see his lips move. “Thank you.” 

“I’ll see you in a few hours.” Eileen worries her lower lip as her eyes dart off to the side. A debate flickers behind her eyes before she forces a weak smile. “A few hours,” is the last thing she says before she ends the call. 

Sam stares at the black screen for a few moments before he gently sets the phone down beside him. He focuses at the opposite wall of the kitchen, forcing his breaths to come out deep and even. His elation at seeing Eileen wars with his grief at losing Dean until he’s almost nauseous with churning emotions. 

“I’ve got to go,” he finally says, trying to force his fatigued body into motion. “I need to look up something, see what I can find about the Empty. I need to…” 

“Sam.” Cas’ hand settles on his shoulder, warm and firm. Though a world of devastation lurks behind Cas’ eyes, he still manages to look compassionate and calm. “You should go to bed. It won’t be any help to Dean if you end up hurting yourself.” Cas makes a brave attempt at a smile. “I’ll wake you when Eileen gets here. That’ll be your customary four hours, yes?” 

Sam tries to smile, but it hurts too much. “What are _you_ going to do?” he asks, accepting the hand that Cas offers him. He staggers a little once he’s upright, his legs numb from sitting down for too long. 

Cas lifts one shoulder in a shrug. The gesture is so human that he had to have picked it up from Dean. “I don’t sleep, so I’ll probably start going through the library. I doubt that the Men of Letters have anything on the Empty, but they’ve surprised me before.” 

“You know, I could help—” 

“Sleep,” Cas says firmly, and then goes so far as to steer Sam out of the kitchen with one hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t let up until they’re outside Sam’s room. “I’ll wake you up when Eileen gets here. Until then, you need your rest.” 

Sam doesn’t bother to argue. He goes into his room and performs his nightly rituals: kicking his shoes off and stripping down to his boxers and t-shirt. By the time he brushes his teeth, his eyelids are heavy. 

With the events of the night, Dean and Eileen prominent in his thoughts, Sam doesn’t think he can sleep, but by the time his head hits the pillow, he’s already gone. 

***

As soon as the door to Sam’s room closes, Castiel’s face falls.

He wishes he could comfort himself the way he did Sam, but he already knows there is no information about the Empty in the Men of Letters’ library. He knows, because he spent a year’s worth of late nights in the library by himself, scouring every dusty tome and obscure scroll for a way to lift the curse he took on to save Jack.

But at the moment, Sam needs hope more than he needs the truth. In his years on Earth, Castiel has learned that sometimes, it’s kinder to lie.

So instead of turning his steps to the library, Castiel heads deeper into the bunker, looking for Jack. He finds him sitting at one of the tables in the kitchen, staring down into a bowl of cereal. Castiel knocks softly on the doorframe to alert Jack to his presence.

Jack looks up, brows creased in a frown. “Hi, Cas.”

“Hello, Jack.” Castiel walks in and settles himself on the bench seat opposite his son. “Aren’t you going to eat your cereal?” He nods down at the soggy, misshapen cookie bites floating in milk.

Jack shakes his head, studying his abandoned snack as though it holds the secrets of the universe. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so.” He sighs softly. “When I’m sad, eating food I like sometimes helps. But… I don’t even want to touch it. I think I’d throw up if I did.”

Castiel tries to compose his face into an encouraging smile, but he isn’t sure he manages it. “It’s normal to feel like that when you’re grieving for someone, I think.”

“I should be happy the world is saved,” Jack says slowly. Castiel nods to show he’s listening. He knows Jack sometimes needs to give voice to his thoughts to process them, and he is doing so now. “But… I’m mostly just sad that Dean isn’t here to celebrate with us.”

Castiel barely suppresses a flinch at the sound of Dean’s name. “Me too.”

Jack looks up at him, a soft, commiserating glint in his eye that strikes at Castiel’s hard-fought composure. “Because you loved him. I did too, but you… you were _in_ love with him.”

Castiel has confessed the truth of his feelings twice now, but even so, hearing it spoken aloud by someone else is a shock. His first instinct, after years of secrecy, is to deny and deflect, but he pushes past it. “Yes,” he croaks. “How did you know?”

Jack smiles. “I haven’t been alive for very long, but I’ve been bored a lot, so I’ve watched a lot of movies. When the characters in movies are in love, they look at each other exactly the way you look at Dean.”

Castiel fidgets uncomfortably. “That can’t be true, Jack.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” Castiel pauses, searches for the most delicate way to express the fear that has haunted him ever since he realized what he felt for Dean. “Because Dean would have noticed.”

_And then he would have asked me to leave. Again._

Jack tilts his head, considering. “I mean, you both mostly did it when the other one wasn’t looking.”

Castiel’s thoughts stall, and something tightens in his chest. Surely, he misunderstood what Jack was saying. “Both?”

“Yes.” Jack nods eagerly. “I actually noticed Dean doing it first, but then I started to really look, and I saw you doing it too.”

“No. No, Jack.” Despite his failing grace, Castiel can still sustain his vessel without drawing breath. It makes no sense that he should feel as though he’s fighting for air. “Dean was never in love with me.”

“He _was_.” Jack frowns at Castiel for a moment, but then his face clears. “You know, I should have realized it even sooner? Right after I was born, when you were in the Empty, Dean was… he was very angry. But not just angry. He was drinking a lot, and he just… he seemed so _sad_ all the time.” Something troubled passes across Jack’s expression. “And then one night, I overheard him screaming at Sam about how he wanted me gone because… because I’d promised you things, and you believed them, and that’s why you were dead.” Castiel can tell, by the crease in Jack’s forehead and the uncertain waver of his voice, that the memory is painful for him to recall. The remaining tendrils of Castiel’s grace curl through him, buzzing with the desire to touch Jack’s forehead and take the hurt away. But he knows it would be the wrong thing to do, so, hard as it is, he remains still. “That’s when I knew you needed to come back,” Jack continues. “So that Dean would be okay, and so that he wouldn’t hate me anymore.”

Castiel shakes his head. He tries taking another breath, but it doesn’t ease the tightness in his chest. “No, Jack. It’s… his mother was gone, at the time. I’m sure he was upset about—”

Castiel falters, knowing that any mention of Mary is still painful for Jack, but this time, Jack’s focus is elsewhere. “But Cas, when you came back, Dean was like a different person,” he says, heedless of Castiel’s inner turmoil. “He was cheerful and he made jokes. Going to Dodge City with you and him and Sam is one of my happiest memories, because it was the first time I felt like I was wanted.”

The small tremor in Jack’s voice tears Castiel out of his spiral, and he reaches out to touch Jack’s arm. “You _are_ wanted, Jack. And loved. Very much.”

“I wish I could bring Dean back for you, Cas,” Jack says, eyes shining with regret. “I could try. Maybe if I used my powers to look for him and wake him up—”

Castiel squeezes Jack’s arm and shakes his head. “No, Jack. You woke _me_ up, but I was able to escape the Empty because the Shadow let me go.” A heaviness settles onto his shoulders as he says, “It’s awake now, and angry. It will never let Dean go of its own volition.”

“Then we have to _go_ to the Empty and save him,” Jack says, with finality. “So he can tell you himself that he’s in love with you.”

“I really think you’re wrong about that, Jack.” Castiel has to fight to keep his voice even. “Dean considered me a friend, or a brother, but—”

“No.” Jack shakes his head mulishly. “Do you remember when Dean took me fishing, when I was dying? I wanted to do it because I wanted a memory like Dean made with _his_ dad. I thought he would tell me more about what it’s like to grow up with a father. But most of the time we were there, he talked about _you_. He said he took you fishing one time, and—” Jack smiles, his face glowing with the memory. “He said you were so bored that you started telling him the whole story of how the universe was formed, and it took five hours.” The smile fades from Jack’s face. “But then he said, ‘I bet Cas doesn’t even remember that,’ and he looked so sad. I asked him why he looked like that. I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he said, ‘You know, Cas has a lot of important stuff to do, so he can’t always be around, but he loves you a lot.’ I wanted Dean to feel better, so I said, ‘He loves _you_ a lot too.’ He laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that means something’s sad, not funny. And he said, ‘Yeah, right. I’m not the kind of guy someone like Cas could love, kiddo.’”

Castiel’s heart aches in his chest. For years now, he has known he loved Dean; the knowledge is etched into his mind as surely as the names of the prophets and the sound of every other angel’s true voice. He felt as certain in this knowledge as he did in the conviction that his feelings would never be returned.

All this time, could he have been mistaken?

Too late, Castiel notices that Jack is crying. “Maybe I should have tried to keep convincing Dean that you loved him too, but I — I guess I wasn’t sure yet,” Jack says, voice cracking. He wipes at his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. “And I thought maybe Dean knew better? Because he’s been alive so much longer than I have. I’m sorry, Cas. I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

The jagged pieces of Castiel’s heart realign inside him, forming something new and fierce: a determination, a rightness of purpose he hasn’t felt since he watched the Empty take Dean away from him. He rises from his seat and strides over to where Jack is sitting. 

“You have nothing to blame yourself for, Jack,” he says, as he wraps his arms around his son and plants a kiss on top of his head. “I’m going to save him.” The words ring with utter conviction, the kind that leaves no room for doubt or fear. “I’m _going_ to save him. I’ll start by praying to Amara. For the rest of eternity, if that’s what it takes.” Castiel straightens and smiles down at Jack, who looks a little more cheerful already.

“Okay,” Jack says, then picks up the spoon next to his bowl of cereal. “I think I _will_ eat something now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: An unexpected guest at the bunker. A dangerous journey. A moment of truth and catharsis. 
> 
> Also, we think we're going to post new chapters twice a week, so the wait between chapters won't be super long.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **dothraki_shieldmaiden** : Welcome back! We are BLOWN AWAY by the response that this fic has been getting! Know that we cherish and squeal over every comment. <3

He’s drifting in a happy, hazy dream. He’s not sure of the exact details, but everything is soft, warm and golden. He wants to stay here forever. Here, nothing can hurt him. Here, he’s safe. 

“Sam. Sam, wake up.” 

Sam groans unhappily, burrowing his face deeper into his pillow. He doesn’t want to be awake, but it’s inevitable. Even as he tries to recapture the fuzzy feeling of sleep, he knows it’s pointless. 

“Sam, you need to wake up now.” 

That voice breaks through the heavy feeling in his brain, and Sam bolts upright. The sheets and blankets are tangled around his knees and ankles, so he ends up slamming back into the mattress, but eventually, he manages to flip over onto his back. He blinks the sleep out of his eyes until the blur at the end of his bed resolves itself into a familiar, beloved form. 

“Eileen,” he breathes, hardly daring to believe it. He halfway thinks he's still dreaming, at least until she reaches out towards him and he meets her in the middle. Her hand is warm, the calluses on it familiar, and she’s _alive,_ she’s so _alive_ that it makes his heart break. “Eileen, oh _god—”_

He pulls and Eileen lurches, and together they fall in an ungainly sprawl of limbs. Eileen’s elbow ends up somewhere in the vicinity of his kidneys, and Sam’s spine releases a series of alarming cracks as he twists to avoid crushing her. Eventually, they sort their bodies out to some level of comfort, and then nothing matters: not his morning breath, not the dark circles under Eileen’s eyes, not even the lingering grief still gnawing at his chest. For a few moments, nothing matters except that Eileen Leahy is in his bed, warm and whole.

“Hi, Sam,” she finally says. The corners of her eyes crinkle with her smile. 

“Hi,” Sam replies. He gently brushes a strand of hair out of Eileen’s eyes. She reaches out and presses her palm against his chest, right above where his heart beats. Sam resists the urge to hold his breath. 

“Cas let you in?” 

“Yeah,” Eileen answers, in the distracted way that lets Sam know she really doesn’t want to talk about Cas. Her lips purse while her fingers tap an idle rhythm against his chest. She’s clearly wrestling with a thought, and Sam can see the moment she loses the fight. 

Eileen’s hand slips from his chest to land on his bicep. Her fingers trail down his arm until they find his hand. She squeezes, and Sam squeezes back. He knows what’s coming, has known that Eileen would ask from the moment he saw her. She’s an observant hunter and would have seen the obvious hole in the bunker the second she stepped foot in it. 

“Sam,” Eileen finally asks, her eyes dipping down for a moment before she focuses back on him. “Where’s Dean?” 

***

For all of Sam’s exhortations that it’s a long story, the telling of it is remarkably quick. He manages to keep his voice steady as he talks about what happened after he sent the last text to Eileen: gathering at the silo, seeing Bobby, Charlie and Donna disappear, meeting Cas and hearing what happened to Dean, and then the subsequent confrontation with Chuck and Amara. 

Eileen shifts so that she’s laying parallel to him, propped up on her elbow. She needs to be able to see his mouth when he speaks — Sam’s sign language is no match for this story — but he tries to crowd as close to her as possible, tangling their legs together and resting his hand on the dip of her waist. He needs to feel her, whole and healthy under his palm, when he speaks about the death of the world and the loss of his brother. 

“I don’t know what we’re going to do,” Sam whispers, then speaks aloud the fear that has been weighing heavily on his mind ever since Cas told them where Dean was. “The Empty is… No one goes in, and no one comes out. That’s how Billie described it to me. It’s not like there’s a spell laying around somewhere for us to find, and even if we did… That’s how we get in trouble, from the very beginning. I die, and Dean makes a deal to save me, which sends him to Hell, which ends up with the first Seal being broken, which ends up with the Apocalypse. We just saved the world and got rid of Chuck, and we can’t… We can’t throw that away. Not even for Dean.” 

Eileen’s hand rests lightly on his cheek as she thumbs away the slow leak of tears he’s only just now becoming aware of. “But I can’t leave him there,” Sam says, and here is his shame: that he hasn’t learned anything in the past decade and change; that somewhere in his soul, he’s still the scared kid who would allow the world to burn to save his brother. 

Eileen’s attempt at a smile is wan, but Sam loves her for trying. “Don’t give up just yet. Cas could come through. Jack might be able to work something out.” 

Sam’s answering smile is weak. Eileen is grasping at straws, and they both know it. There are no good answers — only a series of twisted, tangled paths, all of them leading to parts unknown, and it falls to them to pick the best one. 

He’s just getting ready to ask Eileen if she’s had breakfast (he might be a small disaster in the kitchen, but he can handle scrambled eggs, and Eileen makes some mean pancakes), when a change in the air makes his blood pressure spike. It’s subtle, and to anyone who hasn’t spent their life immersed elbow deep in the supernatural, it wouldn’t be noticeable, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Next to him, Eileen is tense, her head tilted to the side. She’s even more sensitive to pressure changes than him, and Sam can see the slow flex of her fingers, as if she’s searching for a weapon. 

“Something’s here,” she says, unnecessarily. 

Before he can even get out of bed, a flutter of wings interrupts him. Sam yelps and jumps backward as Jack appears at the foot of his bed. 

“Sorry!” Jack says, cringing slightly. “I know I’m not supposed to come into your rooms without knocking, but I couldn’t waste time.” 

Sam saves the lecture about privacy for another time and tries to recover his normal pulse rhythm. He swings his legs out of bed. “What’s wrong?” he demands, fumbling around for a pair of jeans. “What’s happened?” 

Jack’s eyes shine with mingled hope and apprehension. 

“Amara’s back.” 

***

Sam is still pulling on a jacket when he stumbles into the library. His boots are loose and untied on his feet, but he hadn’t wanted to waste a second by stopping to tie them. Next to him, Eileen is much more put together, with a tell-tale bulge at the small of her back hinting at the presence of a gun tucked into her waistband. 

Amara stands in the middle of the library. Against the backdrop of the leather-bound books and rich mahogany bookcases and tables, her light floral sundress is jarring. Her hand rests lightly on the table, fingers a few inches away from the _D.W., S.W._ and _M.W._ carved into the surface. Something in Sam’s chest clenches and jumps at seeing Amara trace along the crude spikes of Dean’s initials. _That’s not yours,_ he wants to scream, _he’s not yours,_ but he restrains himself. 

Amara’s head turns slowly to look at him and Eileen. Sam can’t help his small shift, enough to mostly put Eileen behind him. The sly tilt of Amara’s eyes says that she noticed, but she doesn’t say anything about it. Her eyes barely flick to Eileen, and they stay on Sam for less than ten seconds before they shift back to Cas. 

Cas’ hand is curled at his side, like he wants to have a blade in it, but he’s restraining himself. His shoulders are hunched in the way that always reminds Sam that Cas has actual _wings,_ even though he’s only seen the shadow of them less than a handful of times. While Cas is not overtly aggressive, there’s still unease in his posture. Only Jack seems to be unaffected. While he’s certainly not relaxed, the expression on his face is more curiosity than hostility or fear. 

“You came back,” Jack says, his voice neutral. “We didn’t expect you to.” 

An enigmatic smile graces Amara’s face. “I had to visit the world first. There are many things to put right. My brother allowed Heaven to fall into disarray until it was a crumbling prison masquerading as a kingdom. I have begun repairs, but there is still much to do.” Sam thinks he sees genuine pleasure light up her face, but it’s gone before he can truly comprehend it. “Your prayers interrupted me,” Amara tells Cas. Both she and Cas ignore the sharp jerk of Sam’s head towards them. “You wish for me to save Dean.” Sam holds his breath, hope swelling in his chest, only for it to be punctured by her next words. “But I came to tell you that I cannot save him.” 

Cas buckles, as though the remaining strings holding him upright were abruptly cut. “Please,” he asks, his voice rough. “Please, there must be something you can do.” 

Sam’s never heard Cas beg for anything. He finds he doesn’t care for the sound. 

“My brother wanted to control everything,” Amara says, ignoring Cas’ stricken expression as she sits on top of the table. With her atop it, the familiar, utilitarian item turns into a throne. “He always had to control his stories, tugging at a string here, or nudging someone into place there, and you saw the result of his meddling. A megalomaniac turned loose, chaos and destruction, and death untold. Lives ruined, and the balance of the universe upset.” Amara lifts her chin, imperious as only a cosmic entity can be. “I will not make my brother’s mistakes. I will not interfere and I will not meddle.” 

“Please,” bursts out of Sam’s mouth. Amara turns to look at him. Underneath her gaze, Sam becomes tiny, but he continues to make his case. “Please, if you just opened a portal, we could go get Dean ourselves. You wouldn’t be interfering.” 

“Don’t be foolish, Sam Winchester,” Amara says, and though her voice is even, Sam feels the sting of her rebuke. “You are human, and you would never survive in the Empty. Besides, I have already stated that I will not interfere. I will fix what my brother broke. I will restore Heaven to the utopia it was intended to be, but I will not tear holes in the universe merely because you wish it.” 

Sam slumps. Only Eileen’s presence at his side keeps him from collapsing entirely. This is it then. If Amara won’t help them, he’s lost Dean forever. 

“However.” 

Sam’s head jerks upright as a thrill of hope slams into him. Amara meets his eyes. She looks softer, somehow, as though she finally understands the nature of human connection and love. Sam’s heart jumps in his chest. 

“I’ve thought about it, and while _I_ don’t feel comfortable opening a rift into the Empty, I don’t think it would violate any rules if _you_ opened one.” 

Cas looks like he’s fighting and losing the battle with frustration and despair. “There are no spells to do that. The Shadow is an ancient entity, one that predates even you. Its realm is cosmic — too powerful for us to breach through mere witchcraft. I don’t think that even Jack’s power would be enough to break through the barrier — not if the Shadow knew we were coming.” 

Amara reaches over to a few scattered papers and picks out one that is blank. She sets it flat on the table and settles her palm over it. After a moment’s concentration, writing spills out from her palm to cover the paper. She glances over it, before looking back at them. 

“This will work, but it will need something else. As you said, the Empty is cosmic, and as such, it requires cosmic energy to open it. Something equal and opposite. If the Empty is nothingness, then to open it, you would need…” 

“Creation,” Cas says, his mind jumping to the conclusion while Sam’s remains a few steps behind. “Grace.” 

Amara inclines her head in acknowledgement. “Whoever’s grace opens up the rift, they’ll be the only one who can enter, so choose wisely. Also, the rift will close behind you, so before you enter, you need to be sure of what you’re doing.” 

Sam feels helpless as he stares at Cas and Jack. He doesn’t have grace to offer; he’s only human. Weak. Impotent. He can’t save his brother; he can’t even help. He’s forced off to the sidelines while others take on the job that should be his. 

Cas never flinches. “I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care about the price, I don’t care what comes after. If there’s even a single spark of hope of finding Dean, then I’ll take it.”

Amara raises her hand, palm up, before closing it into a fist. When she opens her fingers, a small sphere rests in her palm. It looks like glass, but at the same time, it swirls and gleams with an inner light. 

“This is your escape,” Amara explains as Cas gingerly takes the sphere from her. “When you’re ready to leave, crush it, and you, and anyone else in direct contact with you, will be transported back here. It only works once, so be sure you’re ready. There are no second chances, Castiel. Not in this.” 

Cas’ head jerks in an unsteady nod. “I understand,” he says, voice hoarse. 

“The Shadow will try its best to trap you and frighten you. You’ll need to keep your mind clear if you wish to have any hope of finding Dean.” 

Cas doesn’t flinch away when Amara lays her hand flat against his chest. “You’ll have to follow your heart, Castiel. Trust that, and everything else will fall into place.” 

When Amara moves, she reminds Sam of flowing water, fathomless and fluid. She looks at each of them in turn. Sam can’t hope to figure out what’s behind her eyes, only that it goes deeper than he could ever imagine. 

“If everything goes as planned, this is the last time we’ll see each other.” Amara smiles. “Good luck.” 

In the brief second that it takes Sam to blink, Amara vanishes, leaving only the spell and the sphere behind. There’s an emptiness to the air, like it’s suddenly gone flat. Sam breathes in, running his fingers through his hair. 

“Alright,” he says, looking at the paper Amara left behind. “Let’s get to work.” 

***

While Sam isn’t happy to be excluded from Dean’s rescue mission, he's made some measure of peace with it.

Jack, on the other hand, apparently hasn't. 

“It should be me that goes!” he argues, following Cas through the bunker. Cas does his best to ignore him, but his jaw is tight and a vein ticks away in his neck. “Cas, the Shadow _hates_ you. It’s going to be on the lookout for you.” 

“Jack,” Cas begins, but Jack speaks over him. 

“Cas, my grace is stronger than yours. I can stand to lose more than you, and I stand a better chance of fighting back against the Shadow if it attacks.” 

“No!” Cas slams his hands down on the table, narrowly avoiding upsetting the ingredients for the spell. Jack recoils, and even Sam can’t help but flinch. Cas keeps it in check most of the time with an iron-clad self-control that Sam envies, but there’s no denying that he has a hell of a temper when he’s pushed hard and far enough. 

This is undoubtedly one of those times, as he whirls on Jack. “I refuse to see another person that I love get swallowed up. I refuse to let you go into that place. It’s _my_ fault that Dean is trapped there, and _I_ will be the only person put at risk for this, do you understand?” 

Jack’s eyes are wide and glassy as he nods, and at the sight, Cas relents. His shoulders slump and he walks over to Jack, putting a tentative hand on his arm. “Jack,” he says, his voice heavy with regret, “I can’t stand the thought of losing you. Losing Dean was… But if I lose you as well, it _will_ destroy me.” 

“The same goes for you, by the way,” Sam says, inserting himself into the conversation. Cas tilts his head, so Sam continues. “You’re not expendable, Cas. You’re part of this family, so that means you have to come back home.” 

Eileen walks into the library, having gathered the last ingredients. She pauses, clearly reading the tension in the room by their expressions. Cas smiles at her to set her at ease, and she enters.

“That should be the last of it,” Eileen announces, looking over the list. “Except for…” Her mouth twists in sympathy as she looks at Cas. 

“My grace.” Cas looks a little pale, but he doesn’t shy away from the idea. He looks down at the syringe set on the table before picking it up. After a long second, he holds it out to Sam. “Would you mind doing the honors?” A wry smile confirms that his thoughts went to the same place Sam’s did: a desperate afternoon when Sam, wracked with guilt, almost drove them both to the breaking point. “There’s no one else I would trust more,” Cas tells him softly, and Sam finally nods. 

“Alright.” His stomach churns as Cas sits down on a chair in front of him, tilting his head to the side so his neck is bared. With the tip of his finger, Cas indicates where Sam should put the needle. Sam takes a deep breath. Before he can think about it too long, he pushes, and the needle slides into Cas’ neck. 

“Slowly,” Cas grunts, his forehead wrinkling with pain. “Otherwise, you might explode us both.” 

“Now you tell me,” Sam says, though the joke is weak. He follows Cas’ instructions, however, and pulls the plunger out slowly. Swirling, blue-white light fills the glass vial. Sam feels lightheaded. That’s more than grace, that’s _Cas,_ glowing brightly in his hands. 

Eternities seem to pass as Sam pulls the plunger out further, filling the vial with more and more grace. Finally, Cas raises a hand. “That’s enough,” he says, his voice weak. “That should be enough.” Gratefully, Sam pulls the needle out of Cas’ neck. Almost immediately, Cas slumps to the side. His breathing is heavy and strained, but when Jack steps forward, he holds up a hand to stall him. 

“I’m fine,” he rasps. Sam would argue with that sentiment: Cas’ skin is pale, and a fine sheen of sweat covers his forehead. “Just give me a second.” 

Sam thinks that Cas is going to need more than a second, but he keeps that opinion to himself. Instead, he sets up the ingredients of the spell. Rowena’s voice echoes in his head, reminding him that _Witchcraft is more intention than skill. Willpower can manifest what skill alone can’t._ He keeps his mind clear of everything except her voice, until everything is prepared and he turns to Cas. 

“Are you alright? We can wait if you need—” 

He’s cut off by a sharp gesture of Cas’ hand. “No, I’m fine.” Cas stands up, and though he’s a little wobbly on his feet, he stays standing. After a few seconds, he looks stronger. “I’m not leaving Dean in there any longer than is absolutely necessary.” 

“Alright. Make sure you have the sphere.” Sam swallows. “And Cas, if it comes to saving yourself, or saving Dean…” 

“I will save Dean.” Cas’ firm voice leaves no room for doubt. “And I’ll come back.” He looks at Jack, who says nothing, but his eyes are wide and lost. “I promise.” 

Sam takes a deep breath and starts the chant. It’s not in any language he recognizes, but Amara’s instructions give the phonetic directions, and he finds his tongue strangely suited to the words. Everything fades away as he performs the spell: Eileen, the rest of the bunker, Cas, Jack. All that remains is the rhythm of the words and the power steadily gathering underneath his skin. 

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and Sam swears he can feel electricity sparking at his fingertips. The vial of Cas’ grace sits in his hand, warm to the touch. Sam chants faster, and at the crescendo, he tips the vial into the bowl of the other ingredients. Power swells in him, like a wave gathering. It fills him up until he’s overflowing, drowning, he _is_ power, and all that remains is to fling out his hand and shout out the last word of the incantation. 

The air cracks and shivers, and a golden tear rips through the bunker. Sam’s knees buckle, and he grabs onto the table to keep from falling over. Eileen supports him as he collapses into a chair. He wants to go over and say his goodbyes to Cas, but he’s too weak to stand. Cas looks at him, squaring his shoulders as he steps forward. 

“I’m going to bring him back,” is the last thing he says, before he steps through the portal. The tails of his coat have barely disappeared when the portal snaps shut with a crack of finality. 

Sam, Eileen and Jack are left in the library. Sam is too exhausted to feel anything beyond his own fatigue, but Jack still looks torn. 

“What do we do?” he asks, tapping his toe against the ground. “How do we… What do we do?” 

Sam is at a loss, but Eileen steps in. “We get everything ready for when they come back,” she says firmly. “And we hope.” 

***

Darkness.

All around, claiming him, pressing in on every side.

Castiel is alone.

He stands still, gathering the last remnants of his grace around himself, to protect his mind as best he can from the foul tang of despair that thickens the Empty’s atmosphere. As he does so, he becomes painfully aware that the spell took more grace than he could spare. If there was ever a chance of returning to Heaven to recover its full strength, that chance has now most likely passed.

Still, there should be enough left to save Dean Winchester one last time. There has to be.

“Hello, Clarence.”

He spins around until his eyes light on Meg’s shape, perched on a richly carved wooden throne, just as she was the last time he came here.

Meg’s face pulls into a cocky grin; so like her, and yet _wrong_. “How nice of you to come and see me again so soon,” the Shadow says. “We’re getting to be quite good friends, aren’t we?”

“I’m here for Dean,” Castiel says, his voice thick with loathing. “Give him _back_.”

A glass of wine appears in Meg’s hand, and the Shadow taps a fingernail against its rounded surface, producing a small _clink-clink-clink_ that sounds unnaturally loud in the living, malevolent darkness.

“No,” the Shadow says, taking a slow sip of the blood-red liquid. “I don’t think so.”

Castiel’s fingers itch with the need to produce his blade. He knows that even an angel blade couldn’t possibly harm a cosmic entity this powerful, but the temptation to try is almost too much to resist. “I’m going to find him, whether you like it or not,” he says, through gritted teeth.

The Shadow’s laugh is high-pitched and cruel. “You’re welcome to try, Castiel. I have him well hidden. You could wander this place for all eternity and never find him.” Meg’s head tilts at an unnatural angle, and a snarl of pleasure escapes from her throat. “You know? I think I like that idea.”

Meg’s shape evaporates, leaving nothing but darkness behind. Castiel’s insides twist with hatred and fear. What now? What can he possibly do to find Dean in this vast darkness?

Amara’s voice rings through his mind: _You’ll have to follow your heart, Castiel. Trust that, and everything else will fall into place._

Her words seemed meaningless at the time, but something clicks into place inside Castiel now. Ever since he raised Dean from Hell, he has felt an unceasing urge to be close to him. The urge was relatively easy to ignore when he still had his wings and all of his grace. He pushed it into the far recesses of his being, to be examined and puzzled over at his leisure. But after he chose to fall, it became a constant, aching pull inside his chest; a bone-deep yearning that seemed, if anything, to grow stronger when he was actually in Dean’s presence. He knows, rationally, that love does not reside in the heart — an organ whose only function is to pump blood to all parts of the human body. And yet… 

Against his every strategic instinct, Castiel closes his eyes. Miraculously, that simple action makes all the difference. It locks the despair and suffering of this place outside himself, where it cannot touch him. It frees him to look inward instead and let himself feel nothing but the pull, the thread that tethers his heart to Dean’s.

He follows it.

As he walks, he keeps his eyes closed, keeps himself blind to the soundless, featureless emptiness and lets his thoughts drift. He thinks of Dean — the way the lines next to his eyes used to crinkle when he smiled. How beautiful he was, even in his most desperate hours. How a kind word from him had the power to chase away every bit of darkness and self-doubt inside Castiel.

 _I love you_ , he tells the memory of Dean’s face as he walks. _Wait for me. I’m coming for you._

He thinks of the way Dean’s skin would look almost golden in the late afternoon sun. He thinks of a long day by the side of a lake, fishing together and talking about the creation of the universe.

 _Jack says you love me too_. _I never thought you could. I wish I had been brave enough to ask you while I had the chance. I_ will _ask you._

A hand lands on Castiel’s shoulder, and he barely stops himself from crying out.

“So you’re back,” a familiar voice says.

Castiel spins on his heel to face the newcomer.

“Ruby?”

“In the flesh,” she says, a sneer curling her lip. “Or, well, you know. Close enough.” She looks him up and down, disdain written plainly on her face. “I seem to remember the last time you were here, you made me a promise. You said you’d get me out of here.”

“I said I would _try_ ,” Castiel says, as evenly as he can manage. He has a mission; he can’t afford to be distracted.

“And did you? _Try_?” Ruby parrots, mocking. When Castiel doesn’t respond, she scoffs. “Thought so.” She starts to circle Castiel, studying him, but he refuses to adjust his position so he can keep her in his sights. Ruby has no power to harm him in this place, and he has no time for games.

“As soon as I felt _him_ arrive, I figured you’d show up to yank him out,” she says when they’re face to face again. “Dean Winchester. Your very own pet human.”

For the first time since Ruby’s appearance, Castiel’s outward composure cracks around the edges. “What do you mean, you felt him arrive?” he demands, raising his voice. “Have you seen him?”

“Shhh,” Ruby whispers, putting a finger to her lips. “Trust me. I’ve been on the run from the Shadow for a while now, and the trick to staying one step ahead is to keep it down, at all times.”

“Fine,” Castiel hisses under his breath. “Do you know where Dean is?”

Ruby nods, eyes glittering. “There aren’t a lot of humans in this place. None, actually, besides him. His arrival caused a pretty big disturbance.”

It takes a supreme effort not to take hold of Ruby and shake her. Castiel manages it, just barely. “Do you know how to get to him?” he grits out.

“I do,” Ruby says slowly, clearly enjoying herself.

“Show me.”

Ruby cocks her head at him, lips curling up in a half-smile. “I can’t break him out of the dream world he’s trapped in. He’s got to do that himself. But there’s a way to project into it from out here.”

Hope flares wildly in Castiel’s chest. “You mean it’s possible to talk to him? To help him find the way out?”

Ruby nods. “I’ve been here for a long time now. Been awake for a while too, and I’ve learned a few tricks. But just so we’re clear: even if I wanted to spy on Dean’s personal horror show, and that’s a big if, I wouldn’t let you come along.” 

Castiel’s insides twist with anger, and he takes a step closer to Ruby. She doesn’t step back. “I know you want nothing more than to escape this place,” Castiel growls. “And I’m the only one with the means to help you.” Just in time, he suppresses the instinct to touch Amara’s sphere, nestled safely in one of his coat pockets. “So you _will_ find Dean, and you’ll do it on _my_ terms.”

“I think you’re confused, Castiel,” Ruby says disdainfully. “ _I’m_ the one who holds all the cards here. I know how to get to Dean, and I’m the only one who can give him pointers on how to break out of the illusion he’s trapped in. You might have a way to get out of the Empty, but without me, Dean’s not coming along for the ride.”

Castiel clenches his jaw. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” he says, to gain time. “For all I know, you’re the Shadow, wearing Ruby’s face.”

Ruby scoffs. “Oh, please. We both know the Shadow puts on faces to torture us. I’m _nothing_ to you, and you’re nothing to _me_ but an escape hatch.”

Castiel nods curtly and takes a step back. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Ruby studies him for another moment, expression unreadable. Finally, she says, “I zero in on Dean’s location and project myself into his illusion to talk to him. Like I said, you’re not allowed to come along. Just a bit of insurance to make sure you don’t decide to leave me behind after all.”

Castiel considers his other options, but finds that he has none. “Fine.”

“One more thing,” Ruby says, stepping right up to Castiel. Like Ruby before him, he yields no ground. “If we can’t get Dean out, you take me out of here anyway.” 

She looks at him expectantly, and Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not leaving here without him. If Dean doesn’t escape, none of us do.”

Ruby looks mutinous for a moment. Then, apparently realizing that her options are just as limited as Castiel's, she holds out her hand to shake. “Deal.”

Castiel knows better than to put blind faith in any agreement with a demon, but it’s in Ruby's best interest to help him for the time being. It will have to be good enough. He takes her hand in a quick, perfunctory shake. “Deal.”

In the blink of an eye, Ruby is gone. Castiel looks around, but as before, there’s only impenetrable darkness surrounding him. 

He _knows_ Dean is close. His chest aches the way it does when he’s returned to the bunker after a mission and senses Dean’s presence in a thousand little things — his open laptop on the map table, a well-thumbed copy of _Cat’s Cradle_ propped open on the arm of a library chair — but can’t yet see him.

And then, the darkness flickers.

It’s only for an instant, but Castiel thinks he catches a glimpse of a forest, a wooden porch.

Castiel draws his blade and assumes a defensive stance. The darkness flickers again, this time accompanied by a harsh crackling noise. It reminds Castiel of the sound of static from a television or radio speaker.

With startling suddenness, his surroundings transform. He finds himself in the middle of a forest, on the porch of a squat wooden building. He turns, eyes roaming the line of trees in front of him. On a small path, no more than thirty yards away, is Dean.

Castiel’s heart beats wildly in his chest. “Dean.”

Dean’s eyes widen, something wild and desperate igniting in his expression. “Cas?”

The forest blinks out of existence, and Castiel stands in darkness once more.

“No. _No._ ” He spins around, willing the darkness to reshape itself again, but it remains stubbornly black and featureless.

In the blink of an eye, Meg stands in front of him, her face twisted with rage. “How did you do that?” Her voice is nasal, high-pitched beyond recognition. “You’re not supposed to be able to _do that_.”

“I… I don’t know,” Castiel admits, still shaken.

“A glitch,” Meg says, half-furious, half-intrigued now. “But what’s causing it, hmm? Tell me, Castiel.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Castiel repeats, willing himself to _think_. He wishes desperately he understood the rules of this place just a little better. If he did, perhaps he could find a way to manipulate them.

Meg sneers, opens her mouth to speak, but in the blink of an eye, she's gone. Castiel is in the passenger seat of the Impala, Dean in the driver’s seat next to him.

“Dean?”

Dean’s face lights up with a big, welcoming smile. “Cas.”

Relief floods through Castiel. “Dean. I’ve been trying to—”

Darkness surrounds him again, and panic claws at his insides. “Dean? Dean!”

The darkness forms itself into Sam’s shape, his face stretched in an unnatural, grimacing smile. “Managed to find that glitch, Castiel.” Sam’s hand rises up to touch Castiel, and Castiel flinches away. “It was your _name_. Every time our precious Dean said your name, it caused a weakness in the illusion. There’s power in a name, Castiel, and especially the name of a loved one, oh yes.” Sam’s eyes glitter with manic glee. “It was just too _loud_ , Castiel, all those things your human felt when he said your name. But now you’ll never find him, no.” The Shadow clenches Sam’s fist, and Castiel crumples to the floor, his chest burning with agony. Sam’s unnatural grin widens. “Because I fixed the glitch.”

*** 

Dean stumbles along the road, thoughts racing, skin crawling. He has to get away from this nightmare. He has to get _out_ and find Cas.

Fuck. What did Ruby tell him?

_Once you can sense the illusion start to fall apart, get to the portal and walk through. That’s your ticket out of here._

Dean keeps walking, trying to block out the other voice that keeps burrowing into his brain: the one that belonged to the thing wearing Sam’s face. _Castiel won’t be coming back. You’re mine. All mine._

A trickle of cold dread runs down Dean’s spine, even as sweat pearls on the back of his neck. He _has_ to make Cas come back. Maybe he just needs to be _louder_. Or closer to the portal.

Dean speeds up, a plan forming in his mind. It’s not much of a plan, but it’ll have to do: he’ll stand in front of the Roadhouse door and scream Cas’ name until the walls of this fucking horror show come tumbling down around him.

 _Roadhouse_ , he thinks. Just as before, the clearing appears out of nowhere in front of him, just a few hundred yards away. He falls into a run, ignoring the panicked beating of his heart.

When he reaches the clearing, Bobby is sitting on the porch, drinking his beer. “They’ll be along,” he says, smiling, as Dean walks up.

“Cas!” Dean yells, turning around, looking for the telltale static distortion. “CAS!”

Nothing but the sound of birds, the gurgling of the river and the rustling of the trees.

“CAS!”

“They’ll be along,” Bobby says again, his smile widening. Dean’s heartbeat thuds in his ears.

“CAS!”

Out of nowhere, on the other side of the clearing, a second Roadhouse appears.

“It’s a big, new world out there. You’ll see,” Bobby says, unmoved, and opens up another beer.

Dean blinks, trying to clear the white noise of panic from his brain. There’s no doubt about it. This is the _other_ Roadhouse: the one where he saw Cas on the porch and Ruby behind the bar.

Legs shaky with relief, he makes for the building. “CAS!” he calls again, at the top of his lungs, but this time, there’s no flash of tan on the porch.

He stumbles up the steps and tears open the door. “Back in Black” plays on the jukebox. Ruby is behind the bar, glaring furiously.

“What the fuck is taking you so long?” she barks. “I’ve got the Shadow snapping at my heels, and my only ticket out of this hellhole is a lovesick angel who won’t fucking leave without you.”

Dean’s angry retort dies on his tongue. “You’ve seen Cas?” His voice sounds pathetically desperate to his own ears, but he can’t worry about that now. “Is he okay?”

Ruby rolls her eyes as she steps around the bar towards him. “For fuck’s sake, not you too. Aren’t you a little old for this ‘death-defying love’ crap?”

“Is. He. Okay?” Dean bites off, each word a demand.

“He’s fine,” Ruby says, glaring. “But not for much longer. The Shadow’s enjoying this game for now, but if it starts to think you two have a real chance of getting out of here, things are gonna get real ugly real fast. I, for one, don’t plan to be around when they do.”

Dean takes in the nervous tapping of Ruby’s foot, the tightness of her shoulders, and he realizes something. “Cas found a way out. He promised he’d take you along. That’s why you’re helping me.”

“Oh look,” Ruby sneers. “It has powers of deduction. How about putting those to work on figuring out how to break the damn illusion? Because without that, there’s no ticket home for me, you _or_ Castiel.”

Dean swallows, hard. “I _thought_ I had it figured out. Went through every time the glitches happened, and I realized it was always when I…” He shakes his head. Some things are private. “When I said a certain thing. But then it just… stopped working.”

Ruby kicks the bar’s wooden siding with her boot. “Fuck!” She does it again for good measure. “This is worse than I thought. If the Shadow fixed the glitch, our chances of getting out of here are basically zero.” 

Dean watches as Ruby paces up and down the dingy wooden floorboards, looking increasingly agitated. When she finally stops, something passes across her face; a moment of hesitation. She looks up, her eyes carrying an odd mix of defiance and vulnerability. “My illusion... I figured out it would glitch every time I said—” She pauses, jaw clenched. “Every time I tried to tell Sam how sorry I was, alright?” She juts out her chin, daring Dean to make something of it.

“What, you want me to feel sorry for _you_ now?” Dean says, coldly. “You _used_ him to start the Apocalypse. You turned him into a fucking addict.”

“I’m not looking for your pity,” Ruby says flatly. “Point is, I kept saying it, and the glitches kept getting worse. I could tell I was about to get out. Then the Shadow came to get me so I could talk to Castiel about the occultum, and it… it could tell what was happening, somehow. Anyway, it fixed the glitch, and then, just to mess with me I guess, it decided to explain that I’d never get that lucky again.” Ruby stalks over to the bar, slumping into one of the stools. “The Shadow said that when you feel something particularly strongly, that can cause the illusion to start breaking down. But it never happens twice, and it rarely ever happens even the one time. Because demons and angels? Not so much with the big emotions.” Ruby looks down at her boots, grimacing. “That’s why I went on the run from the Shadow after Castiel left. I knew there wasn’t any other emotion strong enough to help me get out. I’d had my one chance, and I missed it. If the Shadow puts me back into my dream world now, I’m trapped for the rest of forever.”

Ruby’s fear is plain on her face. Dean thinks of the misery of being trapped in this place; a place so hopeless and awful, it scares even a demon. He thinks of Cas, who apparently knows how to get out, but is choosing to stay.

One last time, he tries to figure a way he can still make it out of here. But there’s nothing, and he suddenly knows what he has to do.

“Get out,” he says.

“What?” Ruby looks genuinely taken aback.

“Get out. You and Cas,” Dean repeats. “If Cas really has a way out, then I want him safe. I want him home, taking care of Sam if I’m not gonna be around to do it. And maybe… maybe when he gets back, he can pray to Jack, you know? Ask _him_ to yank me out. Kid’s supposed to be all-powerful now, so he should be able to pull that off, right?” With a heavy heart, he remembers his own words, spoken just a few weeks ago. _Jack’s not like you or me or Cas. He’s not family._ “Fuck,” he mutters. “Maybe I don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but we’re running out of time here,” Ruby snarls. “And I don’t think your angel’s gonna go for that plan. He made it pretty clear that he’s not leaving without you.”

Dean straightens his spine, squares his shoulders; if he’s learned anything in his forty-one years of life, it’s how to fake bravado. “Make him. Tell him it’s what I want. Tell him I need him to look after Sam and Jack for me. He’ll understand.”

Ruby looks back at him for a long moment. Then she nods, and just like that, Dean’s back in the middle of the clearing. The second Roadhouse is gone.

Bobby smiles at him from the porch of the other version. “Heaven ain’t just reliving your golden oldies anymore,” he says, toasting Dean with his beer. “It’s what it always should have been. Everyone happy. Everyone together.”

With Ruby gone, the harsh reality of Dean’s situation sinks in. He’s alone. Trapped forever in his worst nightmare, with no possible escape route.

A sob crawls up his throat, and he falls to his knees. “Fuck.” He breathes deep, once, twice.

“Cas?” No answer.

“Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me. I really fucking hope you can, but if not? That’s okay. Because what I’ve got to say, I… I should’ve said it a long time ago, and I just need to get it out.” He blinks hard, and he feels the slow trickle of a tear run down his cheek. “You said the one thing you wanted was something you couldn’t have. And it’s my fault, man. It’s my own fucking fault you felt that way, because I pushed you away. Time and time again, I pushed you away, ‘cause it was just too damn hard to be around you, knowing that… _thinking_ that you weren’t ever gonna love me back.”

There’s a shiver in the air, a shift, a blurring. It’s there and gone again in the blink of an eye. Dean shakes his head to clear it. His knees ache, and he’s somehow ended up with both hands in the dust, but he’s well past caring.

“Should’ve told you the truth a long time ago, Cas.” Another deep breath in and out, and then the words he’s held inside for more than a decade finally make it out into the world.

“I love you.”

A loud, discordant buzzing travels through the air, pushing against Dean’s ear drums. A line of static runs down the side of the nearest mountain. Heart beating hard against his ribs, Dean turns to find the Roadhouse. Bobby is still on the porch, but he’s fuzzy, distorted. A spark kindles in Dean’s chest — a last, desperate hope finding its home inside him.

“Fuck. Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “I love you so much, Cas.” A black crack splits the center of Bobby’s face, and he blinks out of existence. The forest landscape fades in and out, alternating between idyllic mountains and inky blackness. Dean scrambles to his knees, facing the Roadhouse.

The door is right there, calling to him. This is it. He just needs to get there.

“I love you, Cas!” He’s shouting now, pitching his voice to the sky above, and it turns inky black before his eyes. Chest burning with a wild, unhinged joy, he runs for the Roadhouse, darts up the steps. His hand almost on the door, he hesitates.

What if this is just another trap? What if opening this door triggers another reset, and when he comes to, he won’t know any of this ever happened?

It doesn’t matter. He’s got no other choice.

He reaches for the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **dothraki_shieldmaiden** : Sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger. I regret nothing. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **FriendofCarlotta** : Thank you all, once again, for your lovely comments on the last chapter. In this essay, I will... 
> 
> Just kidding. Time for some boys to kiss.

With a final, sinister smile, Sam’s shape melts back into the inky darkness, and Castiel is alone once again.

He still feels that tugging, that insistent _knowledge_ that Dean is somewhere close by, and if Castiel could only manage to put his hand in the right spot, he’d be able to find Dean and pull him out. It’s maddening.

Castiel’s mind races, trying to settle on a course of action. Before he can, Ruby appears next to him out of nowhere.

“We’re screwed,” she announces, without preamble. “Dean figured out how to cause a glitch, but the Shadow got wise and fixed it. Chances of another way out? Basically zero. We’ll have to leave without him.”

Castiel feels panic rising inside him, trying to obscure his thoughts. With a supreme effort of will, he pushes it down. “No. I told you, I am _not_ leaving without Dean.” His hands clench, wanting to take hold of Ruby, to shake the truth out of her. “How do I know you even spoke to him? You could be lying to me. You don’t care about him. All you want is a way out.”

Ruby steps closer, face twisted in a mix of anger and panic. “Listen to me. He said to tell you he _wants_ you to leave. He said he needs you to take care of Sam, and something about a kid. Anyway, we _have_ to—”

“What did he say the child’s name was?” Castiel interrupts.

Ruby throws up her hands in exasperation. “Jack or Jake or something. Who the hell cares. Now can we get out of here, please?”

Castiel closes his eyes, willing his mind to focus. Did he tell Ruby about Jack when he spoke to her about the occultum? He doesn’t think so. That must mean the message is really from Dean.

Does Dean truly want him to leave? It seems like him, to think of their family before himself. But Castiel can’t abandon him in this place, he can’t—

_Cas?_

Castiel freezes.

_Cas… know if… hear me._

Almost unconsciously, Castiel draws a breath into his chest, and another. His muscles tense. The voice sounds staticky, like a badly tuned radio, but it’s unmistakably Dean.

“Dean?” he whispers. He’s barely conscious of Ruby beside him, frowning in confusion.

_Hope you can, but if not? … what I’ve got to… should’ve… long time ago… need to get it out._

“He’s praying to me,” Castiel whispers again, wanting to explain, but afraid that any noise above a pinprick will sever the tenuous connection established by Dean’s prayer.

_Said the one thing you wanted… you couldn’t have. … My fault, man. It’s my own fucking fault… I pushed you away._

Dean’s voice sounds louder now, the staticky interference fading out.

_Just too damn hard to be around you… thinking … weren’t ever going to love me back._

Then the static is gone, Dean’s voice as clear as though he was standing right next to Castiel. A disturbance shivers across the blackness around him. It vanishes as quickly as it appeared, but when Dean’s voice sounds again, Ruby flinches and spins on her heel, looking around.

“Should’ve told you the truth a long time ago, Cas.”

“I can hear him,” Ruby says, eyes wide.

Castiel waves her away, intent only on the sound of Dean’s voice, thick with emotion and so, so close.

“I love you,” Dean’s disembodied voice says.

Emotion clogs Castiel’s throat, vision blurring with tears. “I love you,” he answers, raising his voice as much as he dares. “I love you, Dean.”

He ignores Ruby’s scoff, ignores the wetness on his cheeks, intent only on a point slightly to his right, where the darkness is flickering again. Castiel turns to face it. A wooden door appears in front of him, no more than ten paces away.

“Fuck. Okay,” Dean’s voice says. It’s close, so close, sounding as though Dean is standing just on the other side of the door.

“Dean! Open the door! Now!” Ruby shouts. Castiel has no way of knowing whether her words can reach into where Dean is trapped, but he focuses every fiber of his being on Dean and his voice, willing him to find the door, to open it.

“I love you so much, Cas.”

The door opens, and there is Dean, looking just as Castiel remembers him: tall and bright and beautiful. 

Dean’s eyes land on Castiel. “Fuck,” he says, his face lighting up with the biggest, most joyful smile Castiel has ever seen there. “It’s really you, right?”

Castiel nods, smiling back through his tears. “It’s really me.”

Dean surges forward, and then he’s there, solid and real. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s middle and holds on tight.

After a too-short moment, Dean pulls back, catching Castiel’s eyes with his own red-rimmed ones. Ruby is pacing somewhere in his periphery, but Castiel only has eyes for one person. 

“I love you, Cas,” Dean says, easily, still smiling.

“I know,” Castiel answers, cupping Dean’s cheek. “I heard your prayer.”

Dean laughs, a little wetly, and covers Castiel’s hand with his. “You said that before. Remember?”

“I remember,” Castiel says, tears gathering at the edges of his own vision. “Dean, I’m so, so sorry. You were never supposed to be here. My deal… I meant for the Shadow to take _me_ , I…”

Dean steps back and narrows his eyes, confusion plain on his face. “But it… it did take you. Didn’t it? I _saw_ it take you.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head, and he’s suddenly heavy with exhaustion, the exertion of the past few days catching up to him. “The Shadow must have wanted you to believe that. It… it wanted me to suffer, so it claimed you instead of me.” 

Dean nods slowly. “And it made _me_ think that you were the one who was stuck in here.” He runs a trembling hand down his face. “Fuck. I should’ve known it wasn’t real. I… the way I remember it, I barely even looked for you after you were taken, I…”

Dean looks miserable and frantic, and Castiel reaches out to steady him, wanting nothing more than to pull Dean close, to never let him go, to—

“Boys, this is all very touching, but we’ve got a problem.” Ruby’s voice is edged with panic, and Castiel reluctantly tears his eyes away from Dean’s. Behind them, something materializes out of the blackness — a formless, shapeless shadow. It quivers and oozes towards them, long, crooked fingers reaching out.

“You made it _loud_ again!” a voice snarls, ancient as mountains and high-pitched with madness.

Castiel feels a crushing, paralyzing pain in his chest, and the force of it knocks him to his knees. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Dean and Ruby collapse as well.

_No. Not now. Not when we’re so close._

Castiel every muscle spasms with unbearable pain. He gathers the meager remains of his grace about him and channels it outward, trying to shield the three of them from the worst of the pain. It’s enough. Castiel’s arm still feels ten times its normal weight, but he manages to raise it. He pushes his fingers into his pocket until they close around the delicate sphere that rests there.

“Hold on to me,” he croaks, and through the haze of his exertion, he feels two pairs of hands grasping his coat.

“Don’t let go,” he warns as the next wave of pain hits, and every muscle in his body contracts.

The sphere shatters in his palm.

*******

Seconds tick into years as Sam waits. 

He, Eileen and Jack drift through the bunker in their own orbits, each of them like a ghost. He touches Eileen, but his nerves don’t pick up on the comfort. Jack pretends to read, but he only ends up staring at the same page for several minutes before he sets the book back down on the table. He doesn’t slam it. Sam thinks that maybe he should. 

After what feels like a year, but in reality is only ten minutes, Jack looks up. His eyes are plaintive, and Sam remembers that, for all his maturity and inherent wisdom, Jack has been in the world for less than four years. “When do you think they’ll be back?” he asks. His voice echoes through the quiet. 

Sam’s lips try and form a smile, but he knows they fall remarkably short. “I don’t know. Time in these places… It moves differently. It might be hours. It might be days.” 

Worry and fear eat a hole through him, until all that’s left are the gnawing doubts. What if Cas doesn’t find Dean? What if he can’t break through? What if he lost not one, but two members of his family today? 

These thoughts rattle through his mind before they reach out and take root. No matter how he tries to banish them, they still burrow in further, until they drown out everything else in his head. Sam blinks, trying to clear his mind, but he still hears the insidious voices: _You didn’t save them, you didn’t try hard enough—_

Eileen’s hand settles over his, squeezing gently, and Sam looks at her. Gratitude swells in him, but before he can thank her, light explodes through the library. Bulbs shatter and sparks fly through the air. 

Sam ducks, his arms flying up to shield his head. He hisses as heat bites through the fabric of his sleeves, and automatic reflex has him reaching out for both Eileen and Jack. His hands come up empty, but before he can panic about that, silence takes over the bunker once more. 

Sam raises his head, his eyes automatically searching for threats. He can’t lose Eileen and Jack, he can’t lose anyone else, he’ll kill anything that comes close to them—

His thoughts come to a screeching halt as he turns around. 

Dean is standing in the library.

A laugh bursts out of Sam’s chest. Euphoria floods through his body as he notes Cas standing just beside Dean. Dean’s fingers are tangled in Cas’ coat, his knuckles white like he never intends to let go. “Dean,” Sam says, hardly daring to believe it’s true, but somehow coming to accept that it is. “Dean, oh my god…” 

Sam trails off as Cas shifts and reveals the other figure standing behind him. His heart swoops down to his knees and it feels like the floor comes out from underneath him as he stares into dark eyes. A sly smile graces the face of the demon he once thought was his savior, and Sam tastes blood and sulfur at the back of his throat. His blood pumps in his veins, rising to the occasion. It still remembers the power he once wielded. 

“Hiya, Sam,” Ruby says, tilting her head back. “It’s been a while.” 

A shrill ringing sounds through his ears. He can see that Dean and Cas are trying to explain, but their words fall on deaf ears. Sam can’t see past Ruby, can’t hear anything else other than her sultry voice urging him to give in to his darkest desires. 

_“Ruby?”_

“Ruby?” Eileen echoes his voice, except instead of sounding shocked, she sounds furious. She tugs on his arm, forcing him to fully face her. “This is Ruby?” 

Sam nods, still numb. _Why would Dean bring her here, what the fuck were they thinking, why—_

His brain is slow, still processing the impossibility of Ruby being _here_ in the bunker, which is why he doesn’t notice Eileen practically leaping forward. Her lips pull back in a snarl as a vicious growl rips through her frame. It takes a second for Sam to react, which is a second too long, as Eileen springs forward and brings her fist into Ruby’s face with a sickening crunch of bone striking flesh. 

“You bitch!” Eileen growls, drawing back her fist and striking again. She manages to get another hit in before anyone thinks to stop her. 

Sam moves, though whether it’s to pull Eileen off of Ruby or to help her is anyone’s guess, but before he has to decide, Eileen is thrown backward. 

Ruby sits up, a wicked grin splitting her face. Blood gushes out of her nose to cover the lower half of her face in crimson. She relaxes her hand, but doesn’t lower it. “I did _not_ survive the Empty, deal with your dumb-as-rocks brother and his pathetic, moon-eyed angel, just to get punched in the face by the Sam Winchester Flavor of the Week,” she says, spitting blood onto the floor. “Now, you all are just going to let me go, or I swear to whoever’s in charge now, I’ll decorate the walls with her guts.” 

Eileen jerks upright, hate still glowing in her eyes. Ruby whirls to face her, her hand rising once more. Sam shouts out a warning, groping at his waistband for a knife that isn’t there. 

“Stop!” 

Golden light surrounds Ruby. When she tries to break free of it, she curses in frustration. “What the hell?” she grunts, once she realizes that her feet are stuck to the floor. Her eyes fall on Jack. “Who the hell is this?” 

“You’re not going to hurt any of these people,” Jack says. 

Sam jerks himself out of his motionless state. He sprints from the library and into the war room, where it takes only a moment to locate what he’s looking for. When he returns, he finds that no one has moved an inch. Ruby’s eyes fall on the handcuffs he’s holding, and she raises an eyebrow. 

“Getting a little kinky, huh, Sam?” she smirks. “It’s kind of weird in front of the brother and the girlfriend, but hell, I’ll try anything once.” 

“Shut up,” Sam orders. His skin tingles when he reaches into the sphere of Jack’s influence, but he’s able to turn Ruby around and secure her arms behind her back. 

“You know those aren’t going to do anything to hold me. Once Wonderboy runs out of juice, I’ll be able to walk out of here, except I’ll be in a really shitty mood at that point.” 

“Guess again,” Sam says, as he snaps the second cuff onto her wrist. He jerks her back around to face him. “We’ve done some upgrading since you last saw us. Those are Enochian engraved cuffs. You’re not going anywhere.” 

Jack lowers his hand, and the golden glow fades from around Ruby’s body. She immediately struggles against the cuffs, her efforts growing as she finds her avenues of escape blocked. “What the…” After a few more seconds, she subsides, panting. “You’ve gotten some fancy toys,” she comments, rolling her eyes up at Sam. 

“Yeah,” he says, grabbing her by the upper arm. He can’t quite meet Eileen’s eyes as he marches Ruby past her. “If you like the cuffs, then you’re going to love our dungeon.” 

***

It’s loud. 

Trapped in the Empty, with nothing but fake Bobby, fake Sam and a persistent Kansas song to keep him company, Dean forgot the jarring chaos of the regular world. It slams into him, unrepentant, when Eileen lunges forward and attacks Ruby within thirty seconds of their arrival. 

It’s not really the kind of welcome Dean was hoping for. 

Sam marches Ruby off to the basement, and Jack follows him. It leaves him alone in the library with Cas (who isn’t looking so hot), and a pissed-off Eileen. 

Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around the idea of Eileen being alive, let alone of her being _here,_ when she whirls on him. “Why would you bring her here?” she demands. It’s not like Dean really hoped for a heartfelt, tearful reunion, but _some_ indication of joy at his return would have been nice. 

“She helped us in the Empty,” Cas answers, and yeah, he’s definitely not feeling good. Dean’s still pressed close to him, so he can feel the minute trembles shaking through Cas’ body, but the weakness in Cas’ voice should be obvious to anyone. “She was able to find Dean and reach him. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have been able to help Dean. But she had a price.” 

“Of course she did,” Eileen sneers. “She’s a _demon._ They always have a price.” 

“If you’re asking whether or not I’m happy we were forced to bring her back, then no, of course not. But if you ask me whether or not I regret it… No. I don’t. I would never regret anything that brought Dean back.” 

If Dean wasn’t already in love with Cas, that confession would do it. His heart does a painful _thump-thump_ in his chest, and his grip on Cas’ shoulder tightens. 

Eileen rolls her eyes. The rage on her face fades, to be replaced by wry humor. “Thanks for making me feel bad.” She looks at Dean, and a crooked smile crosses her face. “I’m really glad you’re back, Dean.” 

“Yeah. Me too.” Dean rubs at his chest. “Same to you, by the way.” 

“Yeah, dying for the second time wasn’t really any fun, even if it didn’t take. Maybe if I die a third time, I’ll get a punch card or something.” 

Sam interrupts whatever Dean was going to say when he returns, Jack at his heels. “Ruby’s in the dungeon for now. I guess… I don’t know what we should do with her. I mean, we can’t just kill her, but I really don’t like setting her loose on the world again.” He taps his chin. “I guess we could try and summon Rowena? She’s Queen of Hell; she’ll know how to deal with demons.” 

“Sounds like a great plan,” Dean agrees. It actually is a good plan, but at this point, he’s so exhausted that he’d agree to just about anything if it was going to get him to a flat surface just a second sooner. “You can get right on that summoning.” 

“In a second.” 

Dean sees it coming from a while away — the soft, puppy-dog eyes, the wobble of Sam’s chin, the tiny sniffle not quite repressed — but it still takes him a little by surprise when Sam strides forward and envelops him in a bone-crushing hug. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” Sam whispers into the space between his shoulder and neck. His voice is choked, and a suspicious dampness starts to spread along the collar of Dean’s shirt. 

“You didn’t,” Dean whispers back. His own voice is thick, and heat prickles behind his eyes as he grabs at Sam’s shoulders. For the first time since he set foot in the bunker, he allows himself to relax. 

He’s _home._ He’s _safe._

Sam separates from him and wipes at his eyes. “Cas,” he says roughly, before yanking the angel into a tight embrace. Cas looks startled as Sam hugs him, but eventually his arms come up to return Sam’s hug. 

Dean barely has a moment to appreciate the sight of Cas, still looking bamboozled but pleased, before a body slams into him. Years of hunting expertise rear their head, and he reacts instinctively by flinching away, but he stops himself when he realizes that it’s only Jack, wrapping his arms tight around his waist. 

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, speaking directly into his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” 

Dean melts. All of the lingering resentment he’d felt against Jack vanishes until there’s nothing left but the simple pleasure of _family._ “No, _I’m_ sorry,” he replies, returning Jack’s hug and dipping his head so that he speaks into the crown of Jack’s head. “I’m sorry. You’re family, Jack, and I forgot that for a while.” 

Jack squeezes him again. Dean wheezes. Something in his back cracks and creaks in protest. Sometimes Jack forgets his own strength, which isn’t surprising, seeing as he has more power than the rest of them put together. 

Memories clog through his head — Jack, seizing Chuck’s head, and golden light pouring from them both, Jack walking past a pot of flowers and the flowers withering into black. Dean pulls back just enough to look at him. “Jack, are you God?” It seems impossible, but the past forty-eight hours have taught him that few things meet that definition anymore. 

Jack’s face twists in confusion. “No?” he says, as though he’s afraid he’ll give Dean the wrong answer. “I don’t think so? I thought Amara was going to be God. Well, not God, but something similar. I could be wrong though.” 

There’s way too much in that sentence for him to parse. Hopefully, Cas will explain some of it to him later (the thought of Amara as God is simultaneously intriguing and terrifying), but for now, Dean is content to check one item off his list. No Jack as God. Jack is just… Jack. Just their kid, innocent and fragile, always trying to do the right thing, no matter how terrible. Dean drops his head and returns the force of Jack’s hug. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eileen standing just to the side of the reunion. There’s a sad, poignant look on her face, that of someone on the outside looking in. Dean recognizes it after a second: it’s the look Cas would wear sometimes, though Dean could never figure out why. He knows now. 

He lifts his head and waves, grabbing Eileen’s attention. “Come here,” he asks, jerking his head. Eileen waits a moment before she grins, and that’s the beginning of how Dean finds himself wrapped in a hug comprised of too many bodies and arms. Someone smells like they haven’t showered in a little too long (Dean has a sneaking suspicion that it’s him), and someone is sniffling (Dean has a sneaking suspicion that it’s Sam), and someone’s elbow is jammed uncomfortably into his kidney (Dean knows it’s Cas). 

It’s ‘80s movie cheesy, but it’s also messy and perfect. Dean’s heart swells until the fragile confines of his body feel like they’re straining at the edges to contain it. A sob works its way out of his throat, but for once it’s made out of pure joy. This is his family, whole and healthy, and he’s not going to let anything ever happen to them again. 

That thought has just manifested itself in his mind when Cas staggers into his side. With his arms wrapped around Eileen and Jack alike, it’s difficult for Dean to regain his balance. He almost ends up crashing to the floor, but luckily Jack props him up. 

“Cas?” He shifts so that his shoulder is lodged underneath Cas’ arm. “You feeling alright?” 

Cas blinks at him. It takes him several seconds too long to answer, and when he does, his words are slurred around the edges. “I’m fine.” 

That’s a lie if Dean’s ever heard one. “Yeah, okay, Mr. Comatose. Come on.” He looks at Sam. “Are you going to get the spell ready?” 

Sam nods. “Yeah, it’s a standard summoning. It shouldn’t take long overall.” 

“I can watch Ruby,” Jack offers. “Just in case.” 

Sam’s face goes through a complicated journey. “I’m not sure about that,” he begins, but stops when he sees the clear determination on Jack’s face. “Alright. But stay in the storeroom outside? Ruby is… Well, there’s no reason for you to talk to her.” 

A guilty squirm works its way through Dean at the reminder of Ruby, but before he can focus too much on that, Cas slumps further against him. “Call us when you’re ready,” he tells Sam before starting off down the hall. 

If he wasn’t so focused on Cas, he might have wondered why neither Sam nor Eileen bats an eye at his automatic assumption that he and Cas are a single unit. 

“Dean, I’m fine,” Cas grumbles as they head towards the bedrooms. 

“Don’t even try. You’re dead on your feet; I can feel it.” Dean pauses, his palm flat over Cas’ chest. “You’re going to be okay, right?” 

Cas doesn’t roll his eyes, but he comes close. “I’ll be _fine.”_ Dean fixes him with a hard look, and Cas looks to the side. “I did use a large portion of my grace escaping from the Empty. It’s left me a little tired, but I’ll just need to rest quietly for a few hours.” 

“Okay. Okay.” It’s not until they pause in front of his bedroom door that Cas offers resistance. “If you would feel more comfortable, I could return to my room,” he says, but the look on his face gives him away. 

“Come on,” Dean says, pushing open the door and ushering Cas inside. Cas grumbles under his breath, but doesn’t put up more of a fight than that. “You and I are going to relax for a few hours, and if that involves lying down on the bed and cuddling, then so be it.” 

A brilliant flush sweeps over Dean’s cheeks and the back of his neck at his own words, but Cas is either kind enough not to mention it or he doesn’t notice. He stares at Dean with wide eyes, which only grow wider when Dean tugs at the knot of his tie. 

“Come on,” Dean whispers, his voice a little too rough for the moment, but it’s not like he can help himself. “Take a load off.” 

He might be screaming internally, but he keeps his movements steady enough as he tugs the knot loose from Cas’ tie. The cheap material whispers through Cas’ shirt collar, and Dean tosses it carelessly aside. “Lose the coat and the jacket,” Dean suggests. 

Cas blinks at him. “Dean, if this is a seduction, then I’m certainly not averse to the idea, but I truly don’t think that I’ll be able to perform—” 

Dean cuts him off before he has a chance to continue. “No. God, no. I mean,” he chuckles, bumping his nose into Cas’ cheek, “I’m not saying that I would be opposed, but I’m fucking beat and about to fall asleep on my feet.” He draws back so he can look at Cas, and it’s then that the enormity of their actions, of the day really, crashes into him. “Can we just rest?” His shaking hand rests on Cas’ cheek, and he sighs in relief as he takes in the reality of him: the harsh stubble bristling on his cheek, the warmth of his skin, the soft exhale of air over his wrist. “Can we just sleep?” 

Cas leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out a shuddery sigh. Once again, he’s overflowing with adoration and gratitude, to the point where he feels untethered from the rest of reality. He didn’t think it was possible for a single person to feel this much, at least not without going insane from it. 

“Let’s rest,” Cas agrees, his hand cupping Dean’s jaw. He rubs his thumb against the corner of Dean’s mouth, and the touch is enough to drag Dean’s eyes to Cas’. What he sees there makes his breath to hitch in his chest. 

Cas looks like someone getting ready to jump off a cliff. Determination and hope shine in his eyes as he deliberately thumbs at the corner of Dean’s mouth again. Dean understands what he’s going to do, long before Cas’ fingers hook just behind the bolt in his jaw to pull him closer. Cas’ head tilts, and Dean’s heart pounds in his chest. He’s delirious, he’s dreaming, he’s kissing Cas. 

The contact is soft, Cas’ lips gentle. Dean breathes into the kiss, his eyes fluttering shut as he presses closer. His hands settle on Cas’ waist. His skin is warm through his shirt, and Dean can feel the shift of his muscles as he moves closer. Every second feels like it’s stolen from someone else’s life, but it’s better, because when they separate with a soft smack, and Cas breathes out _“Dean,”_ against his lips, like Dean is somehow the most precious thing in the world, Dean realizes that this is just his life. 

He gets to have _this,_ for the rest of his life. 

Dean pushes closer to Cas, deepening their kiss. He takes Cas’ lower lip between his, sucking on it gently and adding just the hint of teeth. Cas whimpers and his fingers dig into the back of Dean’s neck. 

Cas pulls away, but he doesn't break the kiss. It’s only after Dean listens for several more seconds that he realizes what Cas is saying. 

A low repetition, almost like a prayer of _I love you, I love you, I love you…_ until Dean is dizzy with it. He breathes Cas’ name like discovering salvation, and they might have gone on like that forever, except Cas’ knees buckle. 

Dean catches him. He thinks he always will. “Lie down,” he says firmly, though he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth. 

Dean ditches his shoes, but doesn’t bother to take anything else off. He works Cas down, helping him through the awkward motions of repose. Cas rests against the pillows, his body stiff, at least until Dean guides him onto his side with gentle touches. He leaves his hand on the dip of Cas’ waist as they lie on the bed, side by side, facing each other. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean whispers into the secret, intimate space between them. 

A smile twitches at Cas’ mouth. “Hello, Dean.” 

Dean scoots forward on the bed until his knees are pressed against Cas’. He slides his hand up from Cas’ waist to find his free hand resting atop the mattress. Their fingers tangle together like they were made for it. 

“This is all really strange,” Dean confesses. He feels the twitch of Cas’ fingers in his, and he holds on tighter to prevent him from pulling away. “Not this,” he assures him, knocking their knees together in reassurance. “This feels _perfect._ But less than forty-eight hours ago, I was convinced that Jack had managed to defeat Chuck and had somehow taken his place, and I’d died from a rebar to the back in a weird, mime vampire juggalo hunt.” 

Cas’ eyebrows rise in disbelief as he continues speaking. “That’s…” He turns his hand so that his thumb strokes over Dean’s pulse points. “You’ll have to tell me about it later. For right now, I think we could both use some sleep.” 

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, wanting to ask what it means that Cas apparently needs sleep now, but too heavy with exhaustion to make the words come out.

He shuffles just a little closer to Cas. Limbs are rearranged until they're pressed together, Dean's head tucked into the hollow of Cas’ throat, their hands still clasped between them. It’s a strange way to sleep, but Dean thinks, with no small amount of glee, he has all the time in the world to get used to it. 

***

Sam watches Dean stagger down the hall to the bedrooms, Cas leaning heavily against his side, and a small bit of warmth blooms in his chest. He’d always suspected there was something a little _more_ between his brother and their friend, but to hear Cas confirm it, and now see the evidence of their mutual affection with his own eyes? That’s beyond anything Sam ever let himself imagine.

Happiness always seemed like something that happened to other people; something to be glimpsed and envied as they drove past on their way to another case. But maybe, just maybe, with Chuck finally gone…

As if to make Sam’s point for him, Eileen walks up from behind and wraps her arms around his waist.

“Are you happy?” she asks, into the fabric of his shirt.

He turns around to face her, and she props her chin on his chest. “Yeah.” A stray lock of hair tumbles onto Eileen’s face. Sam brushes it back behind her ear. “Very happy. I just wish we could get a moment’s peace to actually process and enjoy it, you know?”

Eileen smiles, small and private. “We will. We’ll get Ruby out of our hair, and then we’ll…” Her smile takes on a teasing edge. “… Enjoy.”

Sam tightens his arms around Eileen’s waist and pulls her right up close, savoring the way her body feels where it’s pressed against his — soft curves in some places, solid strength in others. “Really?”

“Really.” Eileen squeezes back, shuffling impossibly closer and shifting against him, until he feels his body start to respond. Grinning, Eileen steps back. “So let’s get this summoning spell done. What do we need?”

Sam laughs, the sound of it almost startling. He can’t remember the last time he laughed. “What’s the sign for ‘tease’?”

“I’ll show you later,” Eileen promises, then moves in again to stand on her tiptoes and plant a kiss just below his ear. “Now, the spell?”

“You know what? Fine.” _Have it your way_ , he signs, a phrase Eileen taught him on their last date before the latest almost-Apocalypse. She chuckles.

“There’s a list of ingredients somewhere,” he says, and walks over to the second-to-last bookcase on the left. Running his finger along the row of books on the top shelf, he pulls out a dusty tome bound in scarlet leather and sets it down on the library table. A red ribbon already marks the page he’s looking for.

Sam studies the list, then turns to Eileen. “We should have all that in the storage cabinet, third door down the hall from the kitchen.”

Eileen nods and they turn to go just as Jack walks back into the library, looking uncharacteristically disgruntled. “Ruby is asking for you, Sam. I told her you were busy, but she wouldn’t stop shouting.”

“Well,” Eileen says, grimacing. “So much for getting her out of our hair.”

“Yeah.” Sam wraps a reassuring arm around her shoulder and squeezes. When Eileen looks up at him, he says, “Can you gather the ingredients? I’ll see what she wants.” Eileen looks ready to throw another punch, so he adds, “I’ll be quick. Promise.” He signs _promise_ , and she smiles.

“Fine. Just… be careful.”

“I will.”

With one last look back at Eileen, he turns to follow Jack down the corridors to the dungeon, stopping at his room along the way to grab an angel blade. Just in case.

Before long, the sound of Ruby’s voice rises to meet him, even through the reinforced walls of the bunker. She’s singing at the top of her lungs, wildly off key.

_“At long last, love has arrived! And I thank God I’m alive! You’re just too good to be true! Can’t take my eyes off of you!”_

“For fuck’s sake,” Sam growls. When they get to the door that separates the storeroom from the dungeon, he claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You stay here. One way or another, I’ll make sure this is quick.”

He holds up the angel blade to convey his meaning. Jack gulps and nods, and Sam opens the door.

“ _I need you, baby, to warm the lonely_ — oh, hey, Sam.” Ruby’s smile is serrated. She’s sitting on a chair at the center of the room, contained by the devil’s trap drawn on the floor and the cuffs that are still keeping her hands confined behind her back. Sam notes with satisfaction that her face is slightly discolored where Eileen punched it. “Is that an angel blade, or are you just happy to see me?”

“You know,” Sam says, keeping his voice carefully even, “We were planning to summon the new Queen of Hell and let _her_ deal with you, but if you’re gonna be this much trouble, I might just change my mind about that.” His fist tightens around the blade, feeling the reassuring, cold weight of it.

Ruby eyes him, unimpressed. “You know, this is all pretty disappointing. Here I am, the reason your brother is—” Her eyes wander to take in the dusty shelves, the cracked concrete of the walls and ceiling. “—home, if that’s what you call this. And you treat me like the enemy.” She leans forward, straining against the cuffs, testing them. “Unless this is foreplay. You know I’m always up for something kinky.” Her smirk widens into a leer, and she spreads her legs in invitation. “That girlfriend of yours might know how to throw a punch, but does she give you what you really _need_?”

Before Sam is conscious of having moved, he’s closed the distance between them, his hand closing around Ruby’s throat, angel blade poised above her. She smirks. “There. _That’s_ the Sam Winchester I know and love.”

 _Except you’re not_ , a voice says in Sam’s ear. It sounds like Eileen. _You’re not that angry, reckless guy anymore._

“You know nothing about me,” he says, and lets go of her jaw. “Not anymore.” It might be his imagination, but he could swear Ruby looks disappointed before she schools her expression back to indifference.

He steps back and deliberately loosens his grip on the blade. “Just wait here and stop giving Jack a hard time. He’s got nothing to do with this.” 

As soon as his anger starts to subside, he’s glad he resisted the temptation to plunge the angel blade into Ruby's throat. She might not deserve his forgiveness, but if she did help Cas get Dean back from the Empty, then at the very least, she deserves to live.

“We’re gonna summon Rowena,” he says, keeping his tone flat and business-like. “She can deal with you in whatever way she wants.”

Without another glance, he turns to go. His hand is already on the door when he hears, “Sam. Wait.”

He should go. He should walk out of this room, back to the library, and tell Eileen that he loves her. But there’s something unexpectedly small and pleading in Ruby’s voice. Admittedly, he’s curious to hear what she has to say. Not to mention another, darker part of him is simply pleased to have her at his mercy for a little while longer.

He doesn’t move.

“What?” he hears himself say.

“Look, I—” When he turns around, Ruby is staring down at the floor, her expression unreadable. “Being in the Empty, it puts a few things into perspective,” she says, slowly and between gritted teeth, as though each word is being torn from her by some invisible force.

Sam waits. Whatever Ruby’s trying to do, it’s not his job to make it easier for her.

“Things like… regrets,” she says, with obvious reluctance.

“If this is an apology, it’s a piss-poor excuse for one.” Sam’s tone is cool and even, and that dark part of him purrs its approval. 

Ruby flares up, eyes flashing and arms straining against her cuffs again. “Look, I’m trying, okay?”

“Not good enough,” Sam says. He leans his back against the door and crosses his arms, angel blade still clutched in one hand. “I still get cravings. All the time.” He didn’t mean to tell her, but he suddenly finds that he really wants her to know. “Don’t think that’s ever gonna stop, actually. And that’s on you.”

Ruby nods, eyes closed and jaw clenched. Sam isn’t sure she’s going to speak again, but just as he’s making up his mind to leave, she says, “You’re doing better, though, right?” When she looks up, there’s something at the back of her eyes that Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen there. On anyone else, he’d call it vulnerability. Or maybe remorse. “You’re happy?”

Sam thinks of Eileen, waiting for him upstairs. He thinks of his brother, home safe and hopefully about to embark on a new relationship with someone who’s been loyal and kind to him. “Yeah,” he admits. “I’m happy.”

“That’s good,” Ruby says, staring off to the side.

Sam knows he owes Ruby nothing, but maybe that’s not what this is about. Maybe it’s about proving to himself that he’s more than the darkness inside him; about moving past old hurts so he can hold on tight to his happiness in the present.

“You’ve got a chance to do better too, you know,” he tells Ruby, and her head snaps back to face him. She clearly wasn’t expecting him to say anything else. “Rowena’s pretty formidable, but she’s fair. If you play by her rules, she’ll treat you well.”

Ruby opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. In the end, she just nods and turns away.

When Sam steps back into the corridor, Jack is waiting for him, looking more than a little apprehensive. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, Jack,” Sam says, smiling. “Everything’s fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **FriendofCarlotta** : Next time: Rowena the Queen. Also, shameless fluff and smut.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **dothraki_shieldmaiden** : Wow! it's hard to believe that we're almost at the end of this fic! When we first got the idea for this, FriendofCarlotta and I knew it was going to be a delight to write, so seeing your enjoyment of this fic is doubly wonderful. Thank you for your kudos and your screaming and flailing in the comments. They mean the world to us. <3

Dean is floating through a dream. 

The details are hazy, but he knows that he’s safe and loved. There’s a distinct presence in his dream, something vast and comforting, and he immediately associates the feelings that presence rouses with _Cas._ Dean smiles and rolls closer to the presence, so very like a sun, and he thinks lazily that he could stay here, like this, forever. 

The only cloud on his horizon is the annoying repetition of a knock. 

_Knock. Knock._

In his dream, Dean rolls over and tries to tuck himself further into the light and warmth. “Go away,” he mutters, trying to shut out the persistent interruption. 

Instead of obeying him, the sound increases in both volume and repetition. _Knock. Knock. Knock._ To make it worse, now it’s accompanied by a voice. 

“Dean. Dean, you told me to get you when the spell was ready.” 

Dean groans. His brain, now more awake than not, easily places the voice as Sam’s. Before he can complain about his little brother intruding on his dreams, another voice sounds in his ear. 

“Dean?”

The sound of Cas’ low rumble, entirely too close, pulls Dean out of his dream. His eyes snap open, and while he’s immediately confronted by the familiar sights of his bedroom, it’s in an entirely new context. 

Cas is next to him. Cas is _on his bed,_ his hair messier than usual, propped up on an elbow so that he can lean over and rest his hand on Dean’s chest. He’s heavy-lidded and wears an expression of satisfaction that sits well on his face. 

Panic beats through his veins for one, two, three seconds, and then Dean remembers how he and Cas came to be in this situation. He remembers Cas’ confession, the Empty and everything that came afterward. He remembers his own confession and their return to the bunker. 

He remembers their _kiss._

Dean’s eyes fall to Cas’ lips with new interest. He stares unabashedly, reveling in the fact that he’s _allowed_ to stare. Cas returns his stare, his eyes darkening as he deliberately tucks his lower lip between his teeth. 

“Good morning,” Cas says. The words are sleep-rough and send a delicious tingle down Dean’s spine. 

“Yeah, it really is,” Dean replies. He rolls over onto his side so that he can reach Cas more easily. His hand settles on Cas’ hip, fingers dipping underneath where his shirt came untucked during the night. He touches warm skin, and the contact is almost electric. Cas’ breathing hitches as Dean’s fingers become more presumptuous and sneak further underneath his shirt. He’s like an explorer, discovering uncharted territory, and he gets to look at the rising blush on Cas’ cheeks while he does so. 

Cas leans forward as Dean’s fingers reach his ribs. “Dean,” he whispers, his chin lifting in an unconscious request for a kiss. Dean can’t help but oblige, dipping his head down to kiss his way across Cas’ chin before arriving at his plush lower lip. 

Dean’s mouth opens to deepen their kiss, morning breath be damned. He’s ready to take what they started last night to the next level, but before he can do that, his cockblocking bastard of a brother jiggles his doorknob with _intent._

“Dean! I don’t know what you’re doing in there, but it had better not be anything weird!” 

Dean groans as he drops his head to Cas’ chest. Cas’ hand lands on the back of his neck, his fingers massaging away some of the early-morning kinks and knots.

“We just woke up,” Dean calls, as loudly as he can with one side of his face squished against Cas' comforting warmth. “Could you let us have ten goddamn minutes?” 

There’s a long pause from the other side of the door before Sam speaks. “I'll meet you in the storeroom in exactly ten minutes,” he finally says. “And don’t forget that I can pick the lock on your door, so keep your clothes on, will you?” 

“We were just gonna make out for a little bit,” Dean mutters, though, really, he had no intention of stopping there. He sighs as Cas’ clever fingers work out a sore spot in his shoulder. “Oh yeah. That’s the stuff. Where has this been my whole life?” 

Cas pauses in the massage. Dean lifts his head, affronted. Cas glares back at him with more venom than it should be possible to muster after only a few hours of sleep. “Where has this been?” he asks, and yeah, Dean probably should have known that was a stupid question. 

“I just meant—”

“Right in front of you. For over ten years.” 

“I know, I was just saying—” 

“Ten years, Dean.” 

Dean returns Cas’ glare before knotting his fingers in the hair at the back of Cas’ head and dragging his face forward. Cas grumbles into the kiss, but after a few seconds, he softens, returning Dean’s kiss and tilting his head to deepen it. He moans softly, hitching his leg over Dean’s, and things might have progressed nicely if Sam hadn’t tried to knock down his bedroom door with a single blow. 

“I literally just said don’t do anything weird! Cas, I really expected better from you!” 

Cas growls, but his ire is directed in Sam’s direction. “Ten minutes,” he calls, then rolls out of bed, leaving Dean woefully cold.

Hair sticking up and shirt rumpled, Cas walks over to the sink to splash water on his face. He’s halfway through brushing his teeth (Dean should probably raise more of a fuss over the fact that Cas is using his toothbrush; that’s weird and gross, but all he can think is that Cas looks _adorable_ with foam gathering in his mouth), when he turns to look at Dean. “You should get ready,” he says, though his words are muffled when he spits into the sink. “Sam sounds impatient.” 

“Sam can go eat a dick,” Dean grumbles, burying his face in his pillow. 

The mattress dips as Cas crawls back onto it. Dean’s breath catches in his chest as he’s boxed in by two sturdy-looking arms. “Though I will admit that I find his interruption… frustrating, Sam has been working all night, with the knowledge that Ruby, the demon who was intent on not only ruining his life, but also unleashing literal hell, is sitting in the basement. He’s eager to see the back of her, and I can’t blame him for that.” 

“Well, when you put it like that,” Dean mutters, tilting his face up in a silent request. 

“Just think of it this way.” Cas leans closer until his nose brushes against Dean’s. Dean gulps at the naked heat in Cas' eyes and licks his lips in unconscious reaction. “The sooner Ruby is gone, the sooner we can turn our attention to… other matters.” Cas isn’t subtle: he stares at Dean’s mouth for several long seconds, leaving no doubt as to the other matters he wants to turn his attention to. 

“But we have to get rid of Ruby first,” Cas says, before he rolls off the bed again, once more leaving Dean bereft.

“Okay, when we get rid of Ruby, we are definitely going to teach you what the meaning of a cock-tease is,” he mutters as he finally rolls out of bed. 

The answering look in Cas’ eyes promises all sorts of sins. 

***

They end up taking a little longer than ten minutes, but Sam doesn’t say anything as they walk into the storeroom. He does give them an exasperated look, but on the Sam Winchester Scale of Bitchfaces, it barely ranks a five. Jack tries, and fails spectacularly, to hide a pleased grin. Eileen's eyes are glittering with amusement, but Dean can’t begrudge her that. 

“Are we ready?” Dean asks. 

“No thanks to you,” Sam growls, then flinches when Eileen digs her fingers into his side. “Yeah, we’re ready,” he says, this time more nicely. “It’s a pretty simple summoning. We perform it, tell Rowena what’s going on, and hopefully she’ll decide to take care of Ruby. If not,” Sam glances at the angel blade laying on the table, “we know what to do.” 

Dean never thought he would see the day where he _didn’t_ want to kill Ruby, but after the Empty, he feels strangely conflicted over her. Yeah, she’s still an evil, manipulating bitch, and she did get his little brother hooked on demon blood, and literally release Lucifer into the world, but killing her still doesn’t sit right with him.

It takes Sam hardly any time at all to perform the summoning. His voice rings out clearly through the small room, and his movements are careful and assured. He tosses the handful of ingredients into the small bowl, after which follows the match. The acrid scent of burning herbs fills the room, and Dean wrinkles his nose. 

“A simple summoning?” he asks, looking around. The smoke obscures his vision a little, but the storeroom is tiny, and Rowena has a pretty distinctive presence. “I’m telling you, we gotta find a cellphone that works in Hell. Witchcraft is so unreliable.” 

A soft, Scottish brogue wraps around Dean, seductive and playful. “Usually, I find when spells don’t work, it’s due to the caster, not the spell. Of course, _you_ wouldn’t have any performance problems, would you, Dean?” 

Dean winces as he turns around. “Hey, Rowena. How’s Hell?” 

Rowena stands behind him, except that’s a woefully inadequate word for what she’s doing. For lack of a better term, she’s _posed_ against the shelves. As usual, she looks as though she’s been interrupted while attending a red carpet gala. Her black gown brushes the floor as she steps forward, and her hair is tangled atop her head in an artful tumble of curls. Luminous, cat-shaped eyes peer at them, and an enigmatic smile graces her lips when her gaze lands on Sam. “Hello, Samuel,” she trills. “And Jack. It is nice to see you again.” 

“Hello,” Jack greets her, smiling and raising his hand in a wave. 

Rowena turns her attention back to Sam. “Your spell was a little short on the details, Samuel. I understand there’s a demon that you want me to deal with?” She nods at the angel blade on the table. “Though it seems to me that you have all the tools necessary for the job?” 

Dean sighs. “We don’t wanna _kill_ the demon.” One perfect eyebrow arches in understated surprise. “Yeah, I know, it’s weird for me too, but we owe her a favor. We don’t want her dead, but she's also an evil bitch, and we don’t trust her to be loose in the world without starting some major shit. So. Compromise.” 

“We’ll turn Ruby over to you,” Sam explains. “You’re the Queen of Hell; we're hoping you’ll keep her in line. If she steps _out_ of line…” He shrugs. “You do what you’ve gotta do.” 

This time, both of Rowena’s eyebrows tick upwards in surprise. “Ruby? I thought she was buried and gone.” 

“She was,” Eileen says shortly. “Now she’s back.” 

Rowena smiles like a blade. “Well, this _is_ interesting. I must thank you boys. You’re always giving me the best ideas.” 

Without another word, she strides past them and to the dungeon door, regal and formidable. At a touch of her hand, the doors open. 

Ruby sits underneath the single naked bulb in the middle of the devil’s trap. Her hands are still bound behind her back with the cuffs. At the sound of the door opening, she tosses her hair back out of her eyes and sneers at them. 

“Oh, what, so it’s a whole family thing now? What, you guys came here to gawk at the demon before you take a trip to the zoo?” 

A flick from Rowena’s fingers silences whatever Ruby was going to say next. Ruby opens her mouth to speak, but when nothing comes out, her expression turns furious. Her mouth works as it shapes curses that only Eileen can interpret. 

“Why don’t you let the grownups talk?” Rowena purrs, dragging up a chair so that she’s less than a foot away from Ruby. She leans closer, examining Ruby with an expert eye. She looks like a butcher, sizing up the best side of meat. “You _are_ a piece of work, aren’t you?” 

Another twist of her fingers releases Ruby, who is practically spitting venom. “Who the hell are you?” 

“Oh, I’m no one important,” Rowena says, tossing a curl of hair over her shoulder. “Just the Queen of Hell.”

Ruby sneers. “You’re nothing but a jumped-up witch with delusions of grandeur. We’re exactly the same.” 

Rowena’s eyes flash purple fire in their depths. When she stands, her chair careens across the room to crash against the wall, shattering into several pieces with the force of impact. 

“We’re _nothing_ alike,” Rowena says. Worse than if she had screamed, her voice has nothing but cold contempt. “You were just a stupid little slut who sold herself to the first crossroads demon you could find for a few parlor tricks. You couldn’t begin to unravel what I am in comparison to you.” 

Rowena’s fingers curl towards her palm. At first, the significance of the gesture isn't obvious, but then Ruby gags. Another second passes and she coughs. Panic flares in her eyes as her frame shakes with the force of her convulsions. She slumps forward as much as the cuffs will allow, hacking all the while. 

A muffled scream erupts from behind her teeth as her spine arches. Her head snaps back, face turned to the ceiling, and twin curls of black smoke spiral out from her nostrils. The next time she coughs, a puff of smoke falls from her mouth. It’s like Rowena is tearing her apart, piece by piece. 

“You never even dreamed of the power I have,” Rowena finally says. Her hand relaxes, and Ruby slumps into her chair, dragging in short, terrified breaths. 

“Oh, there, there. Don’t fret, dearie.” In the blink of an eye, Rowena's entire bearing and attitude have transformed, from avenging angel to soothing savior. She stands behind Ruby and rests her hands on her shoulders. Long, pale fingers stroke down the expanse of Ruby’s throat, comfort and threat alike in the gesture. 

Ruby flicks her eyes up at Rowena. Fear still shines on her face, but there’s something else lurking behind the emotion. Rowena smiles at her, indulgent in her mercy, as her thumb guides Ruby’s head backwards so that she becomes a penitent staring at her god. 

“You’re used to serving, and that’s what I offer you. Serve me, your Queen, and you'll be treated fairly.” Rowena’s face is benevolent as she looks down at Ruby. Her thumb presses into the plush flesh of the demon’s lower lip. Almost unconsciously, Ruby’s mouth opens, giving Rowena the opportunity to slide her thumb inside.

Dean squirms uncomfortably. It’s starting to look like they’re all going to need a good deal of brain bleach after this — especially Sam. Before he can get too antsy, he feels Cas’ hand settle at the small of his back, steadying him. 

“What do you say? Swear your loyalty to me, and you’ll be rewarded. If you try and betray me, however…” Rowena leans down, her mouth close to Ruby’s ear. Her hand slips from Ruby’s mouth to wrap around her throat, thumb pressing over the jump in her pulse. “Darling, if you ever even _think_ of betraying me, that little demonstration earlier is only a taste of what I’ll give to you.” 

Rowena pulls back, but Ruby’s gaze follows her. In her eyes is a look that Dean’s seen in others but never experienced for himself. It’s the light of devotion, the complete trust in another person, the unwavering belief that, no matter what, the other person will prevail. 

Come to think of it, maybe Dean _has_ had that look in his eyes before. 

He shifts so that his shoulder bumps into Cas, even as Ruby leans as far toward Rowena as her cuffs will allow. Rowena notes the motion with a small, pleased smile. “I think we understand one another.” 

She kneels. A single touch of her finger burns a hole in the devil’s trap on the floor, but even though she’s now capable of moving, Ruby stays seated until Rowena beckons her to rise. “We’ll get out of your hair. There’s a lot to do. The business of Hell never quite stops.” 

Rowena doesn’t bother to remove the cuffs as she walks forward. Ruby follows after her, looking perfectly content. She doesn’t bother to look at any of them, her eyes are fixed solely on the shifting of Rowena’s hips and the bounce of her hair. 

“Can we have our cuffs back?” Dean calls after them. 

“I rather enjoy the look of them, but I suppose so.” Rowena rolls her eyes. A touch of her finger has the cuffs springing open, and she returns them, with some ill-temper, to Sam. “I must say, you’re welcome to keep sending me presents like this all the time. I do appreciate your taste.” She chucks Ruby underneath the chin. “Come along now, pet, plenty of things to see and do. I rather think you’ll like the new look of Hell.” 

They sweep out of the storeroom. There’s a flash of light in the hallway, and then silence. When Dean pokes his head around the corner, there’s nothing there, other than a tiny scorch-mark on the floor to mark Rowena and Ruby's passing. 

He turns to look at the rest of his family, all of whom are caught in various stages of incredulity. For his part, Dean has the uncomfortable feeling that his dreams are going to feature a few sexually confusing scenarios for the next few days.

Cas looks at him from across the room. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile, and Dean’s heart flip-flops in response. 

Maybe his dreams are going to be more straightforward than he thought. 

Jack’s cheerful voice cuts through that pleasant train of thought. “Well, who’s ready for lunch?”

***

By the time he finishes lunch, Dean is ready to jump out of his skin. He likes talking to Sam, he likes talking to Eileen, Jack is wonderful as always, but _Cas._ Cas is a fucking asshole. 

He’s sitting next to Dean, with an expression like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and he keeps _touching_ Dean. He runs a finger along the back of Dean’s hand in an infuriatingly light contact, or he rests his hand on Dean’s knee, squeezing slightly, or he presses the length of his leg against Dean’s. 

It’s _maddening._

Dean nods and smiles and even cracks a few jokes when the situation calls for it, but inwardly, he’s screaming. Each brush of Cas’ fingers short-circuits his brain, until he’s operating with little more than a 404 Error screen blinking in his eyes. 

And Cas, the little bastard, turns to him, eyebrows raised in concern and confusion, and asks, “Dean, are you alright? Are you going to finish your sandwich?” 

Dean, who’s been half hard ever since Cas wrapped his hand around the inside of his knee, glares at him. “I’m fine,” he says, through gritted teeth. He deliberately flexes his muscles so that at least Cas is getting a show. “Are _you_ alright?” 

He asks because a brilliant flush has just appeared on Cas’ cheeks, in conjunction with the flexing of Dean’s leg. Cas recovers quickly (a little too quickly for Dean’s liking — that was some prime flirting material right there), and says, “I’m fine,” though his voice sounds just a shade higher than normal. 

Dean turns his attention across the table to Sam, Eileen and Jack. Mistake. Sam looks vaguely ill, Eileen looks like Christmas came early, and Jack… Well, he’s eating the rest of his lunch with single-minded determination, but even he seems to have cottoned on to the tension around the table. 

“Do you maybe want to be alone?” Sam asks. “Like, in another state? I’m sure you could find a nice hotel room, hole up there for a few days…” 

Cas tilts his head. “Why would we want to do that? The bunker is home, and you’re family. We’ve all just gotten each other back. Why would we want to leave?” 

Sam looks like he’s just been effectively bitch-slapped (score one for Castiel). It makes Dean lean a little closer to Cas and bump his shoulder with his own. He drops his hand and finds Cas’. When their fingers entwine, it’s like a little piece of the universe has aligned, just for them. 

“Dean, wasn’t there a show you wanted me to see?” Cas asks, with all of his angelic abruptness. “You know, that show. With the… actors. And the setting.” 

Dean swallows the rest of his sandwich in a gulp that leaves his throat feeling raw. “Yeah,” he says, aware of Eileen’s coy smirk. “That show. Yeah, you know, I was thinking we should watch it.” He looks at Sam, who seems to be equal parts amused and sickened. “Cas and I are going to be watching that show. In my room. Probably for most of the afternoon.” 

Jack’s head swivels back and forth between the four of them as though he’s watching a tennis match. Before he has a chance to ask what show they’re watching (or ask to join them, god forbid), Eileen taps his wrist. “I remember you told me that you've read all of the books in your room, and I want to have something to read while I’m here. Do you want to go to the bookstore together? Maybe Sam will take us out for dinner after?” 

Jack’s eyes go wide in delight. “Can we?” he asks Sam. 

Eileen locks eyes with Dean and makes a sign that doesn’t require extensive knowledge of ASL to interpret. 

_You owe me one._

Dean nods gratefully at her as he takes Cas by the wrist. Cas needs no extra nudging as he stands up from the table. Dean nods (because saying anything feels weird, like he’s waiting for acknowledgement of what they’re about to do, which is definitely _not_ what he wants from his little brother, his kid, or his future sister-in-law) and within seconds, he and Cas are walking down the hallway towards his room. 

“You’re walking fast,” Cas observes. Dean glances over to see if he’s being an asshole, but no, he’s just being Cas. 

Scratch that. A devious little smirk plays around the edges of Cas’ lips, and he’s definitely being an asshole. 

“Yeah? Well, you’re definitely keeping pace.” 

With a suddenness that takes his breath away, Dean finds himself slammed into the wall of the corridor. Cas’ hand protects his head from hitting the bricks, even as he muscles forward to pin Dean between his body and the wall. He leans close, all angelic intent and human hunger, and Dean’s stomach drops when he realizes that _this,_ this impossible creature, is his. 

Good things do happen, indeed. 

Cas lifts his thumb to trace along the line of Dean’s lips. There’s something almost reverential in his touch. “When I first said that I loved you, I never expected you to return my feelings. It was enough, for me, to be able to experience that emotion and to be allowed to exist near you. To have you return my feelings… It’s something beyond what I ever dreamed.” 

“I love you,” Dean whispers, partly because he wants to see Cas’ eyes go hazy and misty, but also because if he doesn’t give voice to the feelings crowding in his chest, he might lose his mind. 

Cas kisses him then, softly, but with a hint of desperation in the way his fingers press in at Dean’s jaw. He kisses like he’s convinced that their time is running out, and Dean never wants him to think that again. He slides his hands through Cas’ hair, cradling the curve of his skull in the palm of his hand, and gentles their kiss into something slower. Cas follows his lead, lips catching together, thousands of kisses blended into a seamless moment, until Dean aches with want. 

“Bedroom,” he finally gasps, when Cas makes his way from his lips to his jaw. “Cas, come on, not here, come on.” 

Cas pulls away. A tempest is in his eyes, and a shiver of delight works its way down Dean’s spine. Looking away from Cas is a struggle, but he somehow manages. 

Dean’s bedroom door closes behind them, and Cas’ lips are on him once more. He gasps into Cas’ mouth as he fumbles with the door. His fingers slip a few times before he manages to press the lock, and then all of his attention is devoted to Cas. 

In the few times between sleeping and waking, when Dean allowed himself to dream about this moment, he thought Cas might kiss like a hurricane. The truth is close to what he imagined, but so much _better._ There’s tenderness in Cas’ hands and mouth. He touches Dean as though he’s precious, and underneath his hands, Dean finally understands the meaning of worship. 

They shed clothes like regrets as they make their way towards the bed, and Dean delights in the feeling of Cas’ skin underneath his fingertips. Cas gasps into his mouth as Dean traces designs over his chest, catching a nipple almost by accident. Dean repeats the gesture, grinning when Cas moans. 

A sharp nip to his lip is his reward. Cas grips his hips with almost bruising force, and Dean whines in delight as the angel works his way down his neck. Heat rolls through his body, obliterating everything except his need. 

They fall to the bed in an ungainly pile of limbs. The frame creaks underneath the sudden onslaught of their combined weight, but it holds firm, and Dean allows himself to appreciate the gifts of Cas’ mouth without the obnoxious interference of gravity. 

He rolls onto his back, pulling Cas atop him. His legs lock around Cas’ waist, trapping him, though Cas seems a more than willing prisoner. When Cas shifts, and the evidence of his enjoyment presses against Dean’s hip, Dean moans, fisting his fingers in Cas’ hair. 

“Stop,” he pants, forcing his legs to release their death grip on Cas’ hips. Though his body is screaming at him, he pulls away. “Cas, sweetheart, stop for a second.” 

Cas’ eyes are wild, his lips slick and swollen. His hair sticks out at strange angles, reminiscent of that night so long ago when they first met. Cas still has some of the same angelic wrath lurking in his body, as he glares down at Dean. 

“What?” His face softens when he looks down at Dean. “Did you want to stop?” His thumb strokes over Dean’s cheek. “We don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.” 

“I want. Trust me, I want,” Dean says, rocking up to prove his point. “But you’re, you know, all angelic and I don’t want to, you know, make you uncomfortable, or force you into...” He trails off when he sees the fierce frown on Cas’ face. 

“Dean. I have seen galaxies live and die and civilizations rise and crumble. I’ve fought angels, demons, and God, all for a chance to be by your side.” Cas rolls his hips downward in a filthy grind, and electric sensation sparks through Dean’s body. “What in the name of everything holy makes you think I wouldn’t want this with you?” 

“Yeah,” Dean pants, breathless from the hint of fire and grace glinting in Cas’ eyes. “On board, check.” He forces a cocky grin, which becomes more natural the longer he looks at Cas. “Kiss me?” 

He means for the request to sound seductive, but it just comes out as painfully earnest. _Painfully earnest_ seems to work for Cas, however, and he leans over and kisses Dean. With each contact, the fire in Dean’s belly flares, until he’s burning from the inside out. 

His hands sweep over Cas’ back, muscles bunching and contracting underneath his touch. He’s greedy and tries to reach everything he can, down to the small of Cas’ back and his boxers. He works his fingers underneath the waistband, gripping the top of Cas’ ass. “Can I?” he pants, craning his head backward so Cas has better access to the tender skin of his neck. 

“Whatever you want,” Cas promises him, worrying at a sensitive spot on Dean’s neck. 

With that blanket permission, Dean works Cas’ boxers off of him as best he can. Cas finally performs an impossible shimmy, and then his boxers are gone and he’s bare. Dean groans. It’s a revelation to see that tawny skin laid before him like a feast, and Dean wants nothing more than to devour him whole. 

Cas, however, has other ideas, as he works his way down Dean’s body, leaving open-mouthed kisses in his wake. No doubt small bruises will bloom across Dean’s skin tomorrow, but he relishes the prospect of looking in the mirror and seeing the proof of Cas’ love. He arches his back as Cas nips at his hips and the small pudge stubbornly clinging to his lower stomach. 

Dean feels like he’s living in a dream as Cas hooks his fingers underneath his boxers. He lifts his hips, eyes rolling back as the cotton scrapes over his cock, and then he’s naked. There’s no shame anywhere in his body — he’s been bare before Cas since he first came back from Hell. 

Cas leans forward, and the slide of skin against skin is almost overwhelming. They kiss and kiss until Dean doesn’t know where he begins and Cas ends. Cas’ hands sweep over his ribs and down to his flank. Dean grabs at Cas’ shoulders, hair, whatever he can get his hands on. The only thought coursing through his brain is _Cas Cas Cas._ He’s drowning and never wants to come up for air. 

“Fuck me,” comes out of Dean’s mouth, and at first, he can’t believe his ears. It’s his voice, it felt like he said those words, but he would never… 

But there’s no one else he’d rather share this with, no one else he trusts like Cas. Cas looks at him, his eyes wide and surprised. He opens his mouth, only to wince when Dean twists his fingers in the hair at the back of his head. “If you ask me whether or not I’m sure, I’ll bite you,” Dean says. 

Cas smirks down at him. “Who’s to say I’m not going to enjoy that?” 

Dean has just enough time to be surprised. Then Cas is moving over him like a dervish, propping himself up on his hands and knees, caging Dean in. “I want to be inside you,” he whispers, kissing at Dean’s chin. “I want to feel you surrounding me; I want to taste your lips when you come; I want to hear you cry my name.” 

“Fuck, Jesus, Cas,” Dean groans. He twists underneath Cas, his hand flailing at his nightstand. Cas doesn’t help him, the bastard. He just watches as Dean fumbles with the drawer. After an insufferably long time, he comes up with a bottle of lube. He throws it at Cas, an action that would have taken almost any human by surprise, but Cas barely flinches as he snatches the bottle out of mid-air. 

God, Dean loves him so much. 

“You know what to do with that?” 

One of Cas’ eyebrows creeps up his forehead. “Need I remind you that I was alive when humans discovered sex? There’s very little about the act of intercourse that surprises me.” 

“Big words,” Dean taunts. He relaxes back into the pillows and folds his arms behind his head as he spreads his legs in open invitation. “Think you can back them up?” 

The look Cas gives him is full of storms and fire. He crashes into Dean like a wave, and Dean is swept away. Lips, teeth, tongue and fingers all blend together in a dizzying array of sensation that leaves him helpless. He can feel Cas, from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet. 

Cas slides down Dean’s body, forcing his legs wider with his broad shoulders, and Dean grapples behind his head for a pillow. “Here,” he pants, shoving the pillow at Cas. He’s eager (more than, as the streaks of pre-come slicking his belly and inner thighs will attest to), but he’s also well-aware of the limits of his body. His lower back is already warning him, and he doesn’t want to be in pain tomorrow. 

The pillow is shoved under his ass, and Dean breathes in deep. He stares at the ceiling, unable to make himself look at Cas as he feels the first curious fingers skate over his balls to his perineum, and then between his cheeks. 

Of course, his plan to remain unaffected and stoic goes out the window the second Cas licks a stripe up his cock, from root to tip. 

His hips buck up as a strangled cry leaves his mouth. Cas repeats the gesture, though this time, he throws his arm over Dean’s hips to control his movements. Pinned, Dean succumbs to the pleasure. His fingers twist in the sheets, blunt nails almost tearing a hole in them, when a slick finger strokes over his hole. 

Between that questing finger and Cas’ mouth, Dean is undone. He clutches at the mattress and digs his heels in, allowing the pleasure to take him over. Cas closes his mouth over the head of his cock, his tongue sweeping over the heated flesh as he presses first one, then two fingers inside Dean. 

He’s on fire. That’s the only explanation for how he feels this way. Cas’ fingers and touch, his _love,_ dear god, have set him ablaze. He doesn’t think he can get any higher, and then Cas twists his fingers inside him and manages to graze his prostate with the contact. 

_“Fuck!”_ Dean cries, when Cas repeats the movement. He tangles his fingers in Cas’ hair, pulling him off his cock. Cas looks at him, eyes bright and lips swollen. A single thread of saliva connects his lips to Dean’s cock, and as Dean watches, it snaps. 

“Fuck me,” Dean says, in a voice too close to begging. “Please, Cas. I’m not… I wanna feel you.” 

Cas runs his free hand along Dean’s thigh in soothing circles. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. 

“You won’t. I promise, you won’t.” Dean hooks his leg around Cas’ waist. 

The worry fades from Cas’ face as he wipes his hand clean against the sheets. He leans forward to kiss Dean’s chest. When he looks up again, his eyes are glistening. 

“I love you,” he says, and the words are both fact and promise. 

“I know,” Dean whispers. "Me too."

Cas stretches out above him, covering him and protecting him. Dean opens his arms to receive him, stroking over Cas’ sweat-slick skin as he spreads his legs and makes a home for Cas to nestle into. He kisses Cas and keeps kissing him even when blunt pressure pushes against his hole. 

There’s a short moment where Dean panics, and then, with no great fanfare or ado, Cas is inside him. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes; Cas kisses them away. 

“I’m good,” Dean says after a minute. He opens his eyes to look at Cas and immediately forgets his worries. 

Cas looks like a man transfixed. His eyes are wide and his mouth slack, as though he’s receiving revelation. He fixes his eyes on Dean, almost helplessly. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean murmurs as Cas slides forward. “God, Cas, you’re so good, make me feel so good. Come on, that’s it.” 

Cas’ hips settle against his ass, and a small shock of finality works its way down Dean’s spine. Cas tips his forehead to rest against Dean’s, and for a second, they remain still, both breathing in the enormity of the moment. 

Then Cas shifts his hips and need zings through Dean’s body. “Whenever you’re ready,” Dean says, though his voice is strained. 

He feels the force of Cas’ swallow. “Dean, I don’t know if I… I might not last very long,” Cas finally admits. 

“Me either.” It’s foolish to pretend otherwise, like he hasn’t been on edge since the first moment Cas laid him out on the bed. “Please, Cas. Please.” 

With a low whine, Cas braces himself on his elbows. He pulls out, almost to the tip, and then thrusts back in. He repeats the motion a few times before he finds a rhythm. After that… Dean knows he’s digging his fingernails into Cas’ back as he holds on, but he can’t bother to be sorry about that now. Not when Cas is moving inside him, as surely as if he was created for this purpose. 

“Kiss me,” Dean pleads, and then Cas’ lips are on his. The kiss is sloppy, their lips meeting clumsily as Cas licks into his mouth, but it’s still magical to feel Cas pant and moan into his mouth. Cas snaps his hips forward, the impact rocking Dean backward on the bed, and then he steals the whine from Dean’s throat. 

“Dean,” Cas grunts, nipping at his chin and lips. “You’re so _tight._ Love you. You’re so beautiful.” Sweat beads at the tips of Cas’ hair, and when Dean kisses him, he tastes salt. 

Dean would have thought that perhaps Cas would be hesitant in bed, his movements stiff and stilted. But Cas is relentless, his hips snapping forward at a brutal pace that drives Dean closer to coming with every movement. When Cas’ hands hook behind his knees to push him forward just that little bit more, his cock rubs against Dean’s prostate with every motion, and Dean _howls_ in pleasure. 

He’s been pleasure-drunk for what feels like forever, and with Cas moving like he wants to fuck him straight through the mattress and into the floor, it’s not going to take much for him to come. Dean manages to work a hand between their bodies and wraps his fingers around his own cock. The touch is a sweet relief and brings his orgasm hurtling towards him. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, yes, god, Cas, you feel so good, gonna come, I’m gonna…” 

Dean swipes his thumb over the head of his cock several times. On the last pass, he catches his nail just underneath the head, and that tiny flare of pain has his balls tightening before he spills over his stomach. 

He kisses Cas through his orgasm, needing to feel him there and present. Love beats through him with every pulse of ecstasy, until he’s floating on it. From far away, he feels Cas’ hips stuttering against his ass and hears Cas’ low groan of completion. His arms wrap around Cas’ back as Cas tips forward and rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Heedless of the mess between them, Cas slumps down, pressing their bodies together. 

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs, once their breathing slows. 

Dean twists his neck to look down at Cas. “You always say thank you after you come?” 

Cas peers up at him. His face is almost painfully earnest, so much so that it threatens to crack Dean’s already compromised heart. “It was a beautiful thing you shared with me. I feel…” He blinks for a moment, overcome. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel this much. I’m an angel, Dean. I’m not created for emotions, and yet you…” 

A sound suspiciously close to a sob works its way loose from Dean’s chest, and then he’s clinging to Cas. He presses his face into the tacky skin of Cas’ chest and holds on for dear life. Cas is his lifeboat in a turbulent sea, his one safe space. 

Cas is _everything._

“I love you,” Dean says, but when he says those three words, he means so much more than that. 

He means, _Don’t ever leave me._

He means, _Losing you would destroy me._

He means, _I never thought I would be lucky enough to feel this way._

_I never thought anyone would feel this way about me._

_I never thought I could be happy._

_I want to live with you for the rest of my life._

“I love you,” Cas whispers into his hair. His grip never falters, and he remains holding Dean, long after Dean drifts into sleep. 

***

Castiel blinks awake, and darkness surrounds him.

For a moment, he panics, but it doesn’t take him long to realize that this isn’t the featureless, malevolent, breathing darkness of the Empty. It’s a darkness that is sheltering and comforting, made more so by the warm weight of a body draped across his chest.

_Dean._

Castiel closes his eyes again, lets himself savor the wave of happiness that washes through him. Experiencing that emotion can’t help but bring back memories of his confession in the dungeon. Much has happened since then, but the time that’s passed is no more than the blink of an eye when measured on the scale of Castiel’s lifetime.

_Happiness isn’t in the having. It’s in just being. It’s in just saying it._

He meant those words when he spoke them, of course, dredged that truth from the very core of his being to lay it at Dean’s feet. But perhaps, Castiel considers, he still has things to learn about how happiness is defined. Yes, there is the happiness of speaking a closely guarded secret out loud for the first time. And then there is the happiness of holding Dean Winchester close, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat against his own bare skin. It’s the same emotion, and yet… as different in shape and degree as it’s possible to be.

That pull, that constant thrumming connection between them, still sits in Castiel’s chest, but it feels different now — content and sated. Castiel knows the future holds many elements of uncertainty, not the least of which is his fading grace. What will it be like, attempting to live as a human again?

He’s confident, at least, that Dean won’t send him away this time. But there will be an adjustment period, a time to grieve for what he’s losing, and it will come sooner rather than later. After all, Castiel just spent several hours sleeping, for the second time in as many days.

And now… Castiel frowns, trying to parse the signals his body is sending him. Because it undoubtedly _is_ his body now — _his_ heart that beats faster when he pulls Dean close, _his_ skin that tingles everywhere Dean touches it. And _his_ stomach, he suddenly realizes, telling him it needs food.

With great reluctance, Castiel wiggles out from underneath Dean’s weight. Dean grumbles and shifts, but settles again easily enough when Castiel tucks the covers around him. Castiel smiles, aching with fondness for this difficult, infuriating, wonderful man.

The digital clock on Dean’s nightstand tells Castiel that it’s around two-thirty in the morning. It seems wrong, somehow, to slip back into his suit at this hour. By the small sliver of light shining through the gap under Dean’s door, Castiel catches sight of the worn grey robe Dean likes to wear, draped over the desk chair. Castiel picks it up and pulls it on, the soft, smooth fabric feeling surprisingly comforting against his skin. Perhaps he should consider getting a robe of his own. Then again, at least some of the pleasure of wearing it is in knowing that it belongs to Dean.

On bare feet, Castiel shuffles out into the corridor. He has almost closed the door behind him when he realizes that his feet are cold: another new sensation. He returns to Dean’s room and hunts for his socks, discarded in the frantic lead-up to their lovemaking. The search proves tricky in the darkness, and Castiel expends the smallest bit of grace to help himself see better. If it means he can avoid turning on the light and waking Dean, it’s worth the effort. Almost immediately, he finds one of his socks under the desk and the other hanging off the foot of the bed.

Castiel pulls them on and sets off once more down the corridor, bound for the kitchen. To his great surprise, the lights there are already on. He walks in to find Eileen sitting at one of the tables, picking at a small plate of French fries and wearing nothing but a checkered flannel shirt that very obviously belongs to Sam, being much too large for her petite frame.

“Hi, Cas,” she says, smiling. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Hello, Eileen.” He shuffles fully into the kitchen and takes a seat opposite her. “I was hungry,” he admits.

“Me too.” Eileen smiles as she pushes the plate towards him. “Help yourself.”

 _Thank you,_ Castiel signs, and takes a fry.

“This is a new thing for you, isn’t it?” Eileen asks. “Being hungry, I mean.”

Castiel nods, then lets out a bone-deep sigh as the delicious, greasy, starchy taste floods his mouth. _It doesn’t taste like molecules_ , he signs.

Eileen laughs, a low, musical sound. “What?”

Castiel swallows his bite. “When I had the full power of my grace, I wasn’t able to taste food properly,” he says. “I often missed it. But… I seem to be able to taste these fries just fine.”

“Does that mean you’re human?” Eileen asks, her kind brown eyes studying Castiel closely, as though she were trying to ascertain the answer to her question simply by looking at him.

Castiel focuses inward, feels the precious few remaining tendrils of grace swirling inside himself. “Not… all the way. But almost. A matter of days, I think.”

Eileen nods, giving him a sad smile. _Will you still be able to sign?_

Castiel puts the fry he is holding into his mouth to free up his hands. _I hope so._ _But I’m sure some of my angelic knowledge will disappear in time. Human brains aren’t built to contain it._

Eileen reaches for another fry. “Are you sad about that?”

“Perhaps a little,” Castiel admits, after he’s swallowed his bite. “I’m losing part of who I was before, but on the whole, I’m glad. The alternative would have been… too awful to contemplate.”

 _Why?_ Eileen signs.

Castiel hesitates, choosing his words. He hasn’t had much time to contemplate what his future will look like, now that he’s returned from the Empty with Dean — now that they both know what they mean to each other. But over the years, he has certainly had ample leisure to picture a very different kind of life.

“Because,” he says, “the best I could have hoped for would be another few decades by Dean’s side, watching as he grew older and frailer and I remained more or less the same. I could have healed some of his aches and pains, of course, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t have let me. So I would have had to watch him wither and die, then spend the rest of my eternal life without him.” Eileen nods her understanding, her eyes shining with sympathy. “I could have seen him in Heaven, of course, but… only ever as a visitor, never truly belonging there. And then, whenever I did die, I would have been forced to go back to the Empty, trapped in my worst nightmare forever.”

Eileen reaches out to cover Castiel’s hand with hers. He appreciates the solid, reassuring warmth of her touch. “I see what you mean. For what it’s worth, us humans will be lucky to have you. Dean especially.”

Castiel takes her hand in his and squeezes, giving her a small smile. He takes another fry and chews on it to distract himself from his gloomy thoughts. _Thank you, Eileen,_ he signs. _I’m very glad that you’re back._

To his surprise, he finds that a little bit of wetness has gathered at the corners of his eyes. He’s cried more in the past few days than in his entire existence up to that point; another side effect of his fading grace, most likely. His voice a little thick, he adds, “Sam is lucky to have you as well.”

Eileen lets go of his hand, but not for long. She walks around the table and scoots onto the bench next to Castiel. She raises her arm, telegraphing her move as she asks, “Is this okay?”

Castiel nods, and Eileen puts an arm around his shoulder, tugging him close until the sides of their heads touch. For a minute or two, they just sit together. Then, Castiel pulls back to sign, _What are you and Sam going to do next?_

Eileen shrugs. _I’m not sure yet. But it’s nice that we get to decide that for ourselves now, isn’t it?_

 _Yes_ , Castiel agrees. _I don’t know what Dean and I are going to do, but I’m eager to find out._

They finish off the plate of fries and head back to their respective Winchesters’ beds. As Castiel slides under the sheets and into Dean’s sleep-warm arms, he realizes that what he just experienced, with Eileen in the bunker’s kitchen, was yet another iteration of happiness. Even if his human life lasts several more decades, Castiel thinks, he may never learn all the different ways it’s possible to be happy.

But he is certainly going to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **dothraki_shieldmaiden** : Just the epilogue left to bring her home! Much love to you all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **FriendofCarlotta:** Let's see how many more hugs we can cram into this fic, shall we?

**Epilogue: Two Years Later**

“Hi! Can I have everyone’s attention?”

Sam waves at the group of eight hunters assembled in front of him in the bunker’s war room. There’s a mix of men and women — some painfully young, others with lined faces and hair that’s streaked with gray. The newcomers, until now busy gaping at the high ceiling, the elegant library, the illuminated map table or the giant telescope, slowly turn their attention to him.

“Okay. Welcome, to the bunker, everybody. Y’all have probably heard that this is a meeting place and research hub for hunters, but it’s more than that. If you follow a couple of simple house rules, it can be home for as long as you need it to be. We’ve got about ten folks staying here right now, but there’s plenty of bedrooms still available. Any questions so far?”

“Yeah.”

Sam turns to find a broad-shouldered, blond guy, in his mid-twenties at a guess, who is perched on the edge of the map table, arms crossed in front of him. “What’s your question—” Sam checks his clipboard. “Matt?”

Matt gives a short jerk of his chin to acknowledge that Sam got the name right. “What’re those house rules you mentioned?”

“Easy.” Sam tucks his clipboard under his arm to count off on his fingers. “Rule number one: Clean up after yourself in the common areas. Rule number two: No loaded guns anywhere other than the gun range. Rule number three: Don’t start shit.” That prompts a round of laughter. “That’s pretty much it.”

“You forgot one, babe.” Eileen steps out of the doorway that leads to the bedrooms and waves at the group. “Rule number four: No visitors without prior approval from either Sam or me.”

Sam lets the clipboard drop back into his hand, then wraps his free arm around Eileen’s shoulders and squeezes. “Everybody, this is my wife, Eileen.” He pulls back enough so Eileen can read his lips when he says, “Anybody who breaks the rules, you’ve got her to deal with. Trust me, you do _not_ wanna be on the receiving end of one of her punches. She damn near knocked a demon out cold one time.”

“Noted. Watch the tiny woman,” says Matt, his lips twitching.

Glaring, Eileen points two fingers first at Matt, then at her own eyes. “I’ll be watching _you_ , that’s for sure.”

One of the other hunters, a tall, lithe woman with dark skin and natural curls, speaks up. “What was that rule you mentioned again? Don’t start shit?”

Everybody laughs, and the tension instantly dissipates. “I like you,” Eileen says, grinning. 

“Name’s Cleo,” the woman says, eyes sparkling with amusement as she gives Eileen an acknowledging nod.

Sam raises his voice again. “Alright, everybody. I’ll give you the tour. First stop are the bedrooms. Follow me through here.”

He turns to go, but Eileen tugs on his arm to stop him. “Hey, you might wanna show them the rooms in the basement first. Dean’s still a mess, and Cas is _this_ close to losing his temper.” She holds up her thumb and index finger, about half an inch apart, to demonstrate the severity of the situation.

“Yikes. Right.” Sam bends down to kiss her forehead. _Thank you, honey_ , he signs as he pulls back.

“Alright, folks,” Sam calls to the rest of the group. “Never mind what I just said. We’re heading down to the bottom level. Follow me!”

***

“You’re sure you got everything?" Dean asks, eyes darting around the corners of his bedroom. "You packed up the stuff in your old room too, right? I know there’s not a ton in there anymore, but it’s a three-hour drive to the house, and it would suck to have to—”

Cas throws both arms in the air, very clearly done with Dean’s shit. “Yes, Dean. I have everything packed. You may remember we already checked that room three times. And even if we hadn’t, I haven’t kept anything of value there in years.”

Dean’s muscles tense, his temper hanging by a thread. He’s been getting better about keeping his anger in check and channeling it into something productive when he needs to, like cleaning guns or punching one of the bags in the gym or cooking a meal for the crowd of hunters that calls the bunker home these days. But so sue him, he’s on the verge of a major life change, and he’s allowed to be a little on edge.

“Jeez, maybe we wouldn’t _have_ to check everywhere three times if you didn’t leave your stuff all over the damn place,” he snaps. “I still haven’t found that AC/DC shirt I let you borrow six months ago.”

Cas’ eyes narrow, blue irises flaring dangerously. If Dean didn’t know better — if he hadn’t held a shaking, crying Cas for two solid days after he lost the last of his grace — he’d think he was about to be on the receiving end of an angelic smiting.

“Oh, are we settling scores?” Cas growls. “Because _you_ said you _forgot_ to buy the anchovies I asked for last week, but Sam told me earlier that he picked them up and you deliberately hid them from me.”

“That’s because every time you eat the damn things, the kitchen smells like fish for days,” Dean mumbles, his anger deflating a little, because yeah, he totally did that, and it was a dick move. Still, he’s not ready to admit defeat, so he crosses his arms and stares at the floor, jaw working. “Sam’s a goddamn traitor. He's supposed to be on _my_ side.”

“So am I, I thought,” Cas says, his voice gentler than it has any right to be when Dean’s being a fucking asshole. Dean looks up to find that Cas has moved a little closer, a lopsided smile on his face.

He takes a deep breath. “Sorry, sweetheart. ‘m just stressed.”

Cas smiles wider and holds out his arms. Dean closes the distance between them and walks right into a tight hug. “You can still change your mind, Dean,” Cas whispers into his ear. “We can stay here, in the bunker, with Sam and Eileen. Or I…” Dean feels the force of Cas’ swallow against his own shoulder. “Or I could go and live in the house by myself. Or elsewhere. We don’t have to live together at all if it’s not what you want.”

Dean pulls back, meeting Cas’ eyes. “Are you kidding me, man? The only thing I’m scared of is that some day, you’ll realize you don’t wanna put up with my shit anymore. Yeah, I’m stressed about moving, but not because it means we’ll be living together.” He strokes his thumb across Cas’ cheekbone and watches the tension slowly melt from his boyfriend’s face. “That’s the one part of this I’m actually looking forward to.” He plants a small, chaste kiss on Cas’ lips. “I love you.”

Cas’ hands come up to card through his hair, and Dean closes his eyes to savor how good that simple touch feels, even after all this time and so many other, much more intimate touches. “I love you too, Dean.”

Dean leans in to kiss Cas again, and this time, he lets it linger. He really _is_ looking forward to moving out of the bunker and into a real home of their own. It’s an old farmhouse with plenty of yard space for Cas to garden in, and plenty of fix-up projects for Dean to do. They found the place while they were driving back from a hunt about six months ago, and Dean could just picture them being incredibly, disgustingly happy there. By the glow on Cas’ face, Dean could tell he was thinking the same thing.

It didn’t hurt that they came across the house around the time Sam and Eileen kicked off their plan to make the bunker a home and research hub for hunters. It had been Sam’s idea originally, but Dean agreed to it, because yeah, that was the kind of thing the bunker was clearly meant for.

Sam had probably expected more of a fight from Dean, being well aware that he wasn’t too fond of being cooped up with strangers. The last time it’d happened, with the Apocalypse World hunters, Dean had been miserable and mostly stayed in his room.

But by the time Sam started floating his plan, Dean already knew the bunker wouldn’t be his home for much longer. Cas, as a human, got cold a lot, and he loved being outside, in the sun and fresh air, working with his hands to get warm. Watching Cas closely had always been second nature for Dean, and he didn’t miss the way Cas’ face fell a little whenever he had to head back inside, into the perpetually chilly, lightless bunker. 

So Dean got on board with Sam’s plan, and seeing that Dean was fine with it, Cas gave his okay too. Jack, of course, was more than excited, because meeting new people has always been one of his favorite things. Dean often finds it hard to fathom how Jack manages to sustain the levels of enthusiasm he seems to feel about it — or about most things, really.

Like the rest of them, Jack took his time figuring out what to do with his life. But after a few months, armed with a fake high school diploma made at Kinko’s, he decided to enroll in classes at the local community college. It was a good thing Charlie’s fake credit cards were still working just fine, because Jack wanted to learn a little bit of everything — photography, video game design, creative writing and a half-dozen other things that Dean quickly lost track of.

When Jack isn't taking classes, he disappears to what he simply calls “meetings,” and which seem to take anywhere from a few minutes to several days. Never one to be comfortable with an unsolved mystery, Dean's tried just about all the tricks in the book — bribery, needling, even mild threats — but Jack absolutely refuses to talk about who he's meeting, or why.

Right now, though, that mystery is the farthest thing from Dean’s mind as Cas’ lips open to his tongue with a small moan, and then—

“Hi, guys!” Jack’s cheerful voice sounds from just outside the room, and Dean curses himself for keeping the door open.

“Hello, Jack,” Cas says, a little sheepishly, and goes to stand behind Dean’s desk chair. Dean glares at him, because how the hell is _he_ supposed to cover up the situation in his pants now? He settles for sitting down on the bed, one leg awkwardly perched on top of the other to conceal his raging boner. “Hi, Jack,” he croaks, then clears his throat. “What’s up?” he asks, in something more closely approaching a normal human voice.

“Well… I know you guys are leaving soon,” Jack says, looking a little embarrassed. “And I have a meeting to get to. So I thought I would come and say goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Jack.” Cas’ smile is warm and fond as he moves to pull his son into a hug, having obviously recovered from the recent make-out session. “You can come stay with us any time, for as long as you like. Our home is your home.”

“I know.” Jack’s eyes are a little watery as he pulls away from Cas, and Dean feels an answering lump form in his own throat.

“Goddammit, come here.” He vaults off the bed and wraps Jack up in his arms. “We’ve got a whole bedroom set aside for you, alright? Hasn’t got much in it yet, because we figured you’d wanna decorate it yourself, but it’s _yours_. So don’t be a stranger.”

“Okay, Dean,” Jack says, and holds on tighter. Dean squeezes him back, and his heart feels full enough to burst, especially when the warm weight of Cas’ hand lands on his shoulder.

“You know I love you, right, kiddo?” he murmurs, very quietly, into Jack’s shoulder, like it’s a secret just for the two of them to share. And it kind of is, because it’s something Dean’s never said aloud until just now, and he can’t for the life of him remember why that is.

“I know,” Jack says, his voice sounding a little thick. “I love you too.”

Cas wraps his arms around the both of them, and they stand there holding each other until Sam’s voice, pitched at full tour-guide volume, sounds down the corridor.

***

Waves roll lazily onto the white, sandy beach, the late afternoon sun painting the island’s rocky landscape in soft, golden tones.

Amara breathes out. The low hum of prayer recedes, along with the beating of every heart in the universe and the noise of her brother rattling at the bars of his cage. Chuck’s screams and rants are so familiar by now that they’re about as bothersome as the buzzing of a small insect in the far corner of a large room.

Amara breathes in, and the scent of seawater, fertile soil and good cooking fills her up.

She’s sitting at one of several tables on a small concrete terrace that is strung all around with fairy lights and perched on a rocky ledge, less than twenty feet above the beach. A flowery sundress hugs her figure, and a broad-brimmed hat shields her face from the bright rays. Of course, she has no need to protect herself from the glare of the sun, but what is the use of omnipotence if you can’t dress to please yourself?

On the plate in front of her is a beautiful specimen of sea bass, grilled to perfection and served whole, garnished with nothing but olive oil, oregano and a slice of lemon. The taverna that produced this bit of culinary perfection huddles against the bottom of a cliff face on the other side of a small, sleepy byroad.

Another presence pushes at the edge of Amara’s consciousness, and she closes her eyes, the better to sense its shape. When she recognizes it, she smiles. “You’re right on time,” she says.

“Hello, Amara.”

Amara’s eyes open to find Jack standing at the other end of the terrace, next to the side of the road. With a flutter of wings, he reappears next to the table and pulls out the chair opposite hers. Once settled, Jack looks around happily, taking in the bright sun, the glittering ocean, the quaint, checkered tablecloths.

“This is a beautiful place,” he says. “I followed your coordinates, but I didn’t look them up on a map. Where are we?”

Amara smiles fondly at the ramshackle building on the other side of the road. “We’re at a roadside taverna on Crete, halfway between Rethimno and Heraklion. Of all the places I ever visited on Earth, I found this one to be the most peaceful.” She purses her lips, looking down at the meal in front of her. “Not to mention, they serve the best food I’ve ever tasted.”

“Are you going to build a version of this place?” Jack asks. “In Heaven?”

“Yes.” Amara picks up her knife and uses it to push aside the fish’s crisp skin, slicing into the tender white meat beneath. “I’ve started work on it, but it isn’t perfect yet. I can’t seem to get the taste of the fish just right. So I came back for…” She pierces a small bite of fish with her fork and brings it to her mouth, humming contentedly as the fresh, savory taste bursts across her tongue. “Research,” she concludes.

Jack shifts forward a little in his chair, eyeing Amara’s plate with barely concealed eagerness. Amara gives him an indulgent smile. “I can have Sofia make you a dish of your own.” 

Jack beams. “I would like that very much.”

Directing her thoughts towards the taverna, Amara wishes for the presence of the middle-aged woman who owns the place. Within a moment, she emerges, her face lined from sun exposure and good humor, her apron stained with flour and oil, dark ends peeking out under the blonde hair piled atop her head.

“Se parakaló, oi sardéles, Sofia,” Amara says, smiling up at the woman.

“Efcharístos, Amara,” the woman returns, with an easy grin, and retreats back into the taverna’s dim interior.

Amara wills the flow of time to accelerate, and within seconds, a large plate appears in front of Jack, laden with golden-skinned sardines, olives and grilled vegetables. Jack spears a piece of eggplant, chewing happily.

“So everyone in Heaven will be able to visit this place, right?” Jack asks around his bite.

Amara laughs, a high, musical sound. “Your table manners leave something to be desired. I should have a word with your fathers about that.”

Jack swallows, looking briefly worried. “You won’t though, right?”

“No,” Amara says, pushing down the small measure of regret trying to make itself felt. “I promised not to interfere, and I intend to keep that promise. Their lives are their own.” She pulls gently at her fish with her knife and fork, exerting only the slightest pressure, and the white meat separates from the bone. “But to answer your question, yes, anyone will be able to visit. Once you and I finish building the new Heaven, all the walls will come down, and anyone will be free to travel wherever they choose, with no more than a thought.”

Jack beams. “That’s wonderful. My dads will be so happy when we tell them what we've been doing.” He resumes eating, but after a moment, his smile dims. “Will you—” Jack hesitates, putting down his knife and fork. “Will you still need my help? After we’re done building the new Heaven?”

He sounds hesitant, perhaps a little worried, and Amara realizes that she’s grown fond of the boy. He has been an excellent helper, his powers far surpassing those of any other angel still in existence, and his cheerful demeanor has by now charmed all those other remaining angels into submission.

“Of course,” she says. “There is much work left to be done. I will need you to visit with all the souls in Heaven and explain to them the new way of things.”

“That’s great,” Jack says happily. “I won’t mind doing that at all. Cas says I’m good with people.”

They eat in silence for a while, Jack making contented little noises as he tries each new food on his plate. The sun is starting to sink below the horizon now, the light a deep orange, and the fairy lights twinkle to life around the porch.

“Do you think Dean will like the new Heaven?” Amara asks, sounding more hesitant than an omnipotent being perhaps should.

Jack considers this, his forehead scrunched up thoughtfully. “Yes,” he decides. “I think so. You know, I asked him once about what his perfect Heaven would look like.”

“What did he say?” Amara asks. She is pleasantly surprised to find that, while she is interested in the answer, it doesn’t matter to her as much as it once might have. Dean will always be special to her, perhaps even her favorite among humans, but there are too many other matters occupying her attention now to dwell too long on concerns of the past.

“He says he doesn’t really care what it looks like, as long as Cas is there, and there aren’t—” Jack frowns, trying to remember Dean’s exact words. “—too many fucking trees.”

Amara smiles as she looks out at the ocean. She lets the even motion of the waves, the earthy smell of the surrounding hills, the salty taste of fresh-caught fish fill her up until her very being sings with love for this world. This precious, flawed, wonderful creation is hers to protect now.

She will not let it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **FriendofCarlotta:** And that's it! We have been absolutely floored by the reaction to this fic. Thank you so, so much for your kudos and comments - we cherished each of them. In fact, they've helped inspire us to dive right into another collaboration. This one starts all the way at the other end of canon (as in, the pilot) and features hunter!Cas. We hope to see you all there. <3
> 
>  **dothraki_shieldmaiden:** Tagging on so that I can echo: this fic was a blast, from beginning to end. From the first conversations we had, to the "Should we do this? No... But SHOULD we?" debate, to the planning and writing of it, and finally to the reception... Every bit of it has been wonderful. If you commented or left kudos, bless you. 
> 
> Teaser: If you loved the badass women in this fic, then you're going to love our new collab. Much love.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are life! Please leave us one if you liked this, or hit that kudos button. Maybe you could even [give this a reblog on tumblr](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/post/640494937947897856/co-written-by-friendofcarlotta-and-dothwrites)?
> 
> Interested in reading more of our writing? You can subscribe to us on our author pages: [FriendofCarlotta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta), [dothraki_shieldmaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden)
> 
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